Chapter 3

I awakened early the next morning. Possibly the strangeness of the bed had something to do with it. I lit a cigarette and lay smoking it, pondering the little I knew concerning the murder.

Evidently, Sheik had been one of those swine who kept asking for violence, and who finally got what he asked for.

A small patch of sunlight from an opening be-twen the curtains and the sill hit me in the face. At least the rain was over. Suddenly, I felt hungry, famished. I swung my long legs down from the bed and crushed out my cigarette. Then I showered, dressed, and opened the door to face what was turning out to be a weird setup. The aroma of perking coffee and of frying bacon permeated my nostrils, tantalizing me. I walked across the street to the show grounds.

The Midway was alive with the sounds of the rising occupants. In the distance, dogs were barking loudly. In a nearby trailer, the voices of a man and a woman were raised in heated anger. A few feet away, a gypsy woman frantically tried to comb the tangled black hair of a kicking and screaming boy. Loud snores sounded from a tent I hurried to pass. As I walked by a living-truck, the door open, and a basin of dirty water was flung out, missing me only by inches. I swore under my breath. This was a new experience for me, one I was sure I would always remember.

As I passed in front of Sam's trailer, he yelled to me from the doorway. "Morning, Steve. Come in. You're just in time for breakfast."

"Fine. Best offer I've had today."

I smiled, noticing the loud checked sport coat and the white flannels Sam wore. He reminded me of a beatnik. I smothered an impulse to scream, "Spout your purple passages, man!"

Sam motioned me to a chair and I sat down at the table.

Lorette, looking fresh and very beautiful, placed a large platter of bacon and eggs before me. She was wearing a loud Mexican skirt and an off-the-shoulder blouse.

"Did you sleep well?" she inquired, solicitously.

"Like a log," I replied, remembering my dream about her.

Sam gave his nervous laugh.

"Have you decided what strategy you'll use in questioning the carnies?" he asked.

I scowled. "I'd like to meet the widow, first. I thought I'd tell her that several friends of her husbands had asked me to convey their sympathy to her. Does that strike you as a good approach?"

He beamed. "Excellent-an ideal opening wedge! She's very gullible. It's a good thing she is because I don't think Sheik had any friends."

Lorette shuddered. "Really, you two sound so cold and ruthless. Poor Dimples!"

I took a sip of coffee, then asked, "Where can I find Dimples O'Dea?"

"Her trailer is parked behind her show-truck, at the back end of the Midway. It's a flashy red and silver job. You won't have any trouble spotting it," Sam informed me.

"I don't like to eat and run, but I think I'll mosey on down to her trailer. In fact, I'm looking forward to meeting her."

Lorette giggled, wagging a forefinger at me playfully.

"Better watch out, Steve," she warned. "Between Dimples and Dolly you might get raped."

I gave her a bold look, an even bolder smile.

"That's an incentive for a guy like me," I said.

As I walked down the Midway past the long line of canvas tents, I met several ride-men who stopped talking to give me curious stares.

I was in front of the side-show tent now. I stared up at the long banner line with its bizarre pictures. A thin young man came rushing out of the side-show and slammed into me, right against my middle. I stumbled and almost lost my balance.

The young man fell backward and landed sprawling, a few feet away.

"Help me or that bitch will kill me!" he yelled hysterically.

A well-stacked female with a long, luxurious beard dashed out of the tent, grabbed the young man by the scruff of the neck with one hand and started to slap him soundly with the other hand.

"Steal my only pair of nylons, will you, you queer!" she shrieked, angrily.

I couldn't control peal after peal of laughter. The young man definitely was a fagot. He kept wringing his hands, trying to ward off the bearded lady's solid slaps to his cheeks.

The bearded lady's back had been turned to me, but at the sound of my laughter, she spun around, and let go of the young man. He rushed inside the tent, and after giving me an icy stare, the bearded lady followed, in hot pursuit.

I still was laughing when I found myself in front of the red and silver trailer. Both the outside door and the screen doors were open. I had just reached my hand out to rap, when I heard voices. I didn't rap, but stood motionless, listening.

Someone was talking baby talk. The conversation didn't make sense. It came from the rear of the trailer. I tiptoed in that direction, and peered around the corner.

As I observed the scene before me, the shock I felt was as though someone had slipped a tray of ice cubes down my back. What I saw was a child's table and chairs, with a play tea set laid out on it. A chimpanzee, dressed in baby clothes sat on one of the chairs. Right next to the chimp, in the other chair, was a shapely blonde. I judged her to be in her early twenties, a small, curvaceous girl with bleached blonde hair, styled in an Italian hairdo.

The blonde was wearing a tight-fitting sweater which emphasized her hard, pointed breasts. Her only other attire was a heart-shaped rhinestone g-string, and sheer nylons rolled high on her thighs. On her feet were high-heeled, toeless gold sandals.

Her toenails were painted black.

I stood watching her, as though I were part of a crazy dream. The contrast between the blonde and the hairy chimp was weird and tragic.

The girl's blue eyes with the long false lashes held a dreamy faraway expression as she leaned over the chimp. She had a spoon in her hand which she kept trying to insert into the animal's mouth.

"There, Mama's itsy-bitsy baby must eat and get big like Mama." She giggled foolishly and leaned closer to the chimp, kissing it.

The strain that the slightest movement put on her sweater almost popped the buttons. I don't know how long I might have stood there, if the blonde hadn't spotted me.

She leaped up, with a loud outcry. As she rose I noticed that her legs were long and beautiful.

"Are you ... Dimples O'Dea? I managed.

She grabbed the chimp by one arm and stepped closer to me, her eyes searching mine. Her voice grated at me. It was coarse, like a truck driver's.

"Who in the hell are you?" she demanded.

I tried to keep a straight face. "I'm Steve Donlon, a friend of Sam Grass."

She drew herself up as though she were a queen and I a presuming peasant.

What's that got to do with me?" she asked, haughtily.

My mind was in a tailspin. What a bundle of contradictions this broad was turning out to be.

I spoke hastily. "I knew Sheik. I just wanted to see you and to express my sympathy."

She stared at me, her hips swaying seductively. She giggled.

"Who needs sympathy?" she mocked. "He was a dirty louse."

I stared, open-mouthed.

Her face registered rage. Then she became coy. She moved closer, pressing her breasts against me.

"Can't you give me more than simpathy?" she asked, seductively.

I drew back. Brother, I thought, what the hell gives? She had a gorgeous body, but her attitude made my blood curdle. I don't like to be chased....certainly not that all of a sudden.

"How about a drink?" she asked.

"I could use one," I replied. And how, I thought.

I followed her swaying hips into the trailer. She still held the chimp by one arm. He followed, docile as a baby.

The trailer was a mess. A table was cluttered with ashtrays, all overflowing with cigarette butts, with empty beer cans and with whiskey bottles, all also very empty. On the sink, swarming with flies, was the remains of a meal ... maybe of several meals.

A cocker spaniel with a litter of puppies snarled at me from a box on the floor.

Another young dame perched on a couch, her body bent over, twisted like a pretzel. She looked up at me from between her shapely legs. She was a pretty brunette with brown hair and eyes to match. She waved two fingers at me.

"Hi, handsome," she cooed.

"Hi," I responded, marveling at her dexterity, thinking how it might give any man ... including me ... a real charge.

Dimples shoved a pile of clothes off a chair and told me to sit down. She laid the chimp down in a baby crib, opened a cupboard door, and pulled out a fifth of whiskey. She took a long swallow, then passed the bottle on to me.

I wiped off the top of the bottle and took a small swig.

The brunette uncoiled her body, untwisted her legs from about her neck, and stood up. She wore a strapless bra and a pair of shorty shorts. Her feet were bare. She stood directly in front of me, pivoting and whirling on one leg, her firm breasts rising and falling with each spin.

I put the bottle to my lips and took another long swallow, then set the bottle down and eyed the brunette. She stood on tiptoe, eyeing me right back. She giggled.

"I'm Dolly Vickers, Sensation of the Nile, Queen of Evil, Venus of Tentation." She ended her singsong spiel with a gyrating bump.

I smiled, foolishly. "Hi, Dolly."

She stretched out one shapely arm.

"Have a bite," she offered.

My eyes must have bugged, but I managed a flippant, "I'll take a raincheck. I just had a big breakfast."

These dolls were weird ... way too "way out" for me!

Dolly pouted. "Sheik used to like to bite me. Why don't you want to?"

I merely shook my head in negation, not daring to trust myself to speak.

Dimples had been standing at the far end of the trailer, cooing at the chimp. She suddenly whirled to face us.

"Stop making a fool of yourself, Dolly," she chided. "After all, he is my guest."

She gave me an unmistakable look, one of open invitation.

Surely, the boys with the white coats will come in any minute now and take us all away. I thought. There was an element of insanity in the entire atmosphere. These two dolls made me feel like a babe lost in the woods. I grabbed the whiskey bottle again, the way a drowning sailor might clutch at a floating spar.

A large tiger cub leaped playfully through the doorway, a leash dragging at its side, and I almost choked on the drink. I jumped up, side-stepping wildly, my mouth open.

Dimples knelt down, clasped the huge beast's head to her breasts and cooed baby talk into his pointed ears. The way this blonde had a mania for spouting baby talk in her coarse husky voice, and to wild animals no less, was the kookiest thing of all.

Clem stood in the doorway.

"I thought you might want me to take Satan for his walk, Dimples," he said.

Then he spotted me. "What the hell are you doing here, Donlon?"

"If it's any of your business which I doubt, I'm paying my respects to Sheik's widow," I snapped.

"All she feels is relief," he said with an ugly laugh. He came well into the little room.

"Are you sure?" I inquired.

Dimples ignored us and proceeded to maul the tiger cub affectionately. Without so much as a glance at either of us, she took the tiger's leash and led the beast out the door.

Clem followed, right at her heels.

"Damn you, Dimples!" he yelled. "You come back here and put more clothes on!"

I started toward the door but I didn't make it because Dolly threw herself at me, wrapping her arms around me. She was breathing hard and there was a primitive expression on her face, a look altogether savage. She was as ready as a foxhound in heat.

I tried to disengage myself from her embrace, but her grip tightened.

"No," she moaned, as though in anguish. I never had heard such desperation in a woman's voice.

I looked at her, my pulse beginning to race. Man, if she needed it that bad, maybe I had better reconsider.

I glanced at the window, uneasily. What if Dimples and Clem came back, right in the middle of it?

Dolly saw my look. Her hot breath practically singed my ear as she leaned close.

"She'll get it from him," Dolly hissed. "You give it to me."

If my life was to be forfeit, I couldn't have said no. Part of me wouldn't let me. Suddenly, I ached for that wildly asking ... and without any doubt ... very capable body.

Seeing surrender in my hot gaze, she yanked her brassiere off and tossed it aside. Next came the shorty shorts and she stood before me, magnificently naked ... even to being completely shaved ... magnificently ready.

She tugged me toward the couch, sprawled on it, her legs spread as wide as she could get them, and pulled me on top of her.

"Hell, at least let me get my pants off," I protested, yanking myself free.

She didn't answer, just lay there, her delightful rump lifting, her eyes gleaming, her crimson lips parted.

Nervous as I was, I never shucked my trousers so fast in my life. The shorts followed. This I wanted for real.

I longed to kiss those juicy looking nipples, but her mouth sought mine, and that hot rough tongue of hers reached for my tonsils.

I gave up and molded myself to her body. She couldn't wait, and neither could I.

When I plunged into that delicious total bareness, she shrieked like a jungle cat being had, and I nearly went of my skull with sheer sensuous sensation.

Her flexible legs encircled my neck like rubber, only much softer, much warmer. Man, what a way to get it all the way in.

I never experienced such wild wonderful movement in all my years of wooing, objective screwing. Man, it was the most.

It didn't last long. It couldn't. Shrieking, she plunged against me a mile a minute and I followed. We crossed the finish line together, a blissful tie.

Dolly smiled, turned her back, and promptly went to sleep!

Slowly, I walked down the Midway. I hadn't garnered much information so far, but brother, what characters I had met! My eyes lighted on the cookhouse, and I walked over and took a seat at the counter.

The effeminate young man I had encountered earlier sat across from me. His hands were waving as he talked rapidly to his companion, a middle-aged woman with bright red hair.

"You think business is lowsy. Well, I have news for you, Lu. You just don't know how bad it really is. Imagine poor Heddy Latose, our side-show hermaphrodite; here she is, exposing her 'all' and not winning a dime. Really, girl, I'm ill, ill, ill."

A short, pot-bellied character wiped the counter in front of me.

"Give me a cup of Java," I said, with a smile.

He slapped the coffee down in front of me. "You're a friend of the boss, aren't you?"

"Yeah," I answered.

He wiped his hands on a grimy apron. "I'm Whitey Mann."

"Hi, Whitey. I'm Steve Donlon."

Whitey leaned his elbows on the counter, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"Heard about the murder?" he whispered, confidentially.

Heard about it ... with the damned thing in all the papers? How stupid could even a jerk get?

I shrugged mentally, deciding to play along. Maybe I would get a break. Obviously, this was a guy with loose lips. Suppressing my eagerness, I leaned forward.

"I haven't heard much," I said, playing it real dumb. "Guy's name was Sheik O'Dea, wasn't it?"

Whitey spat the cigarette butt onto the greasy floor. "Yeah, Sheik O'Dea. And I'd say that he got just what he deserved."

Whitey smiled wisely, exposing broken yellow teeth.

"Then, you didn't like him?"

Whitey snorted. "Hell, no. I hated the jerk. He was evil, just plain evil, and he treated that poor little gal of his as though she was a common bum!"

I nodded encouragingly. "I've met Dimples O'Dea and Dolly."

His lips curved into a knowing leer. "Some babes, eh?"

I chuckled. "Not exactly the type you'd take home to meet mother."

Whitey slapped the counter with one huge hand and laughed loudly. Then he stopped laughing and gave me a sober look.

"You should have met Dimples three years ago when Sheik first brought her here," he said.

"How come?" I egged him on.

"Well," Whitey continued, "she was only eighteen or nineteen then, a mere baby." He leaned over the counter and his voice became a hoarse whisper. "I could tell you a lot of things."

"Such as?" I questioned.

He hissed with excitement, his glance darting about, nervously. "Well, the first year of their marriage, he used to check her into hotels on weekends, and he bragged about the money she made for him."

A loathesome creep, I thought as the ugly meaning of what Whitey had just said fully jarred me.

"He was a logical candidate for murder, wasn't he?" I commented.

"You said it! Many times he came up here and ordered a big steak for himself. At first, I used to kid him about business being so bad that he and Dimples had to eat alternately ... you know, breakfast for him, and lunch for her."

He rubbed his chin and his face grew dour. "You know what that dirty bum told me?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but rattled on. "He said that Dimples was eating hog-jowl and hominy, that she was used to it. He bragged that she didn't even know what steak was, that she had never tasted any. He said that he didn't want to spoil her by letting her find out."

Whitey's words rang with indignation.

I couldn't keep from laughing.

Whitey pointed a finger at me, almost putting one of my eyes out. "Last year he told me ... he was sitting right where you're sitting now ... he told me that he kept her busy all winter at smokers and at stag parties."

I don't know what I might have answered if a dark Latin-type man hadn't walked up and sat down beside me. He had a copy of Billboard Magazine in his hand.

"Whitey, hustle me up some ham and eggs, and don't drown them in grease," he said. Then he opened the magazine and hid himself behind it.

I spoke softly. "Who's laughing boy, Whitey?"

Whitey was busy slapping ham on the griddle.

"Pierre LaTrent, the Great," he mumbled. "That's what he calls himself. He thinks he's a great artist. Bah! Just our free act; he does a few gymnastics on a high pole, once a night."

Just then a middle-aged woman entered from a small enclosure at the back of the cookhouse. She wiped her wet hands on her apron and spoke sharply.

"How about you sharing some of the dirty work, Whitey?" she said. "You got every pot and pan we own all burnt and stuck up. I'll take over here while you finish up in the back."

"Hell, Ruby, a guy ain't supposed to do dishes," Whitey whined.

Ruby picked up a skillet and threatened him, imitating his whine. "Hell, a guy's only supposed to gab with the customers and let me do the dirty work."

Whitey looked at me with a sheepish grin on his face, and muttered, "Drop dead, Ruby."

Then he hurried out. Minutes later, the loud banging of pots and pans could be heard from the rear. I laughed as I stood up and slowly walked away from the cookhouse.

As I rounded the corner I stared, then did a double take. Instinctively, I felt like ducking between the tents, but it was too late. Sheriff Johnson and one of his deputies rapidly walked toward me.

I had met the sheriff before. I knew that he didn't particularly care about private eyes. I would have liked to have ducked him, but he was looking me squarely in the face. I felt like a small boy caught with his hands in the cooky jar. I just hoped he wouldn't louse up the case for me.

"Steve Donlon! What are you doing here?" His double chin quivered with indignation, and he glared at me as he spoke.

"I dropped by to give you a hand, Sheriff. Seems you cops still need someone to find your murderer."

Sheriff Johnson fumed. "Now listen. I don't remember sending you an invitation." His pudgy fingers raked at his sparse gray hair.

The deputy grinned nastily, like a big baboon. "We didn't invite you, Donlon."

Sheriff Johnson glared at him. Then turned back to me.

"What in the hell are you doing here, I asked you?" he boomed.

"I figured I'd come down and solve the murder for you," I teased him.

The sheriff pulled at his large bulbous nose. His eyes were dark with anger. He pointed a trembling finger at me.

"I don't want any more lip from you," he shouted.

Just then Sam Grass walked up. His manner was cordial. "I see you gentlemen know each other."

"Hmmph," Sheriff Johnson growled.

Sam faced him. "I hired Steve Donlon, Sheriff. I thought, with more help, we could find the murderer sooner."

Sheriff Johnson shrugged in resignation.

"It's your money," he said, bitterly.

I smiled, enjoying the sheriff's discomfort.

"How about our comparing notes, Sheriff?" I suggested.

Sam laughed. "That's the idea. How about using my trailer? Lorette isn't home, and we can talk without being disturbed."

I nodded in agreement, and the sheriff reluctantly growled his consent. The three of us followed Sam into his trailer.

The sheriff's bark was worse than his bite. He was a very capable cop, far from stupid, but with a vile temper. He lowered his huge bulk onto the couch, and I sat beside him. The deputy sat at the far end of the couch. Sam flopped in the lounge chair.

The sheriff smiled sourly, and glared at me. "I have been working on this case, regardless of what some people think," he stated.

"I'm sure you haven't been idle," Sam purred.

The sheriff spoke smugly, "First of all, your ticket seller, Lucille Rodd, actually is Sheik O'Dea's lawful wife. It seems he never bothered to divorce her before marrying Dimples."

Sam leaned forward eagerly. "I thought there was something between her and Sheik."

Sheriff Johnson snorted. "You sure were secretive about it."

Sam shrugged. "Little things they did just didn't add up. Now, they make more sense."

"In what way?" I inquired.

Sam shrugged and pressed his lips together, as he pondered. "Glances they exchanged. And one night I thought I saw her and Sheik talking behind one of the tents. But knowing Sheik's weakness for the ladies, I didn't think too much about it."

I was puzzled. "I wonder what she was up to."

"That's what I intend to find out," the sheriff rasped. "At first when I questioned her, I didn't know who she was."

He turned to Deputy Nickles. "Go find that Rodd dame and tell her I want to see her right away."

He glanced at Sam for confirmation as he said this.

Sam nodded agreement.

As the deputy left the trailer, Sam looked at me. "The grapevine probably has it by now that you're a private investigator, Steve."

"That fast?"

"You have no idea how fast news travels along the Midway. Too bad we couldn't have delayed it." Sheriff Johnson spoke briskly. "Yeah. Now you can't sneak around. You'll have to get your information the hard way."

I smiled to myself as I thought about how the sheriff and I had been running into each other for the past month, all the while I was looking for a case .I had built up a deep respect for this tough acting old cop. I think I had earned his respect, too.

A knock sounded at the door.

Sam opened the door and Lucille Rood stepped in, with Nickles at her heels.

I stared at the redhead. She was the same woman I had seen earlier at the cookhouse. I could tell that she had been drinking. Her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed and her face was flushed. She swayed slightly as she stared defiantly at Sheriff Johnson.

"What do you want now, copper?" Her words were slurred.

The sheriff flushed at her insolence.

"Sit down before you fall down, Mrs. O'Dea," he said.

His words had the effect on her that a cold shower might have had. Her face paled, and she grabbed at the arm of the lounge chair to steady herself. When Sam took hold of her shoulders and helped her into the chair, her eyes flashed gratitude.

The sheriff leaned forward to gaze at her, intently.

Her hands clutched the arms of the lounge chair so tightly that her knuckles were white, and her voice was barely audible when she spoke. "So you found out. Yes, I was Sheik's wife."

"Why did you come here ... to this particular carnival Mrs. O'Dea?" The sheriff boomed. "Was it for revenge? Did you kill Sheik O'Dea?"

Lucille shrank back against the cushions, her eyes unnaturally bright with fright.

"No! I didn't kill Sheik." Her voice was a loud wail. "I wanted to get even with him, but I didn't kill him. Please believe me!" She searched our faces, panic mirrored on hers.

She's either a very good actress, or she's innocent, I thought.

The sheriff continued to badger her. "Suppose you tell us everything, Lucille. No lies. Remember, I could arrest you now on circumstantial evidence."

Lucille nervously clasped and unclasped her hands. Her voice was low.

"Sheik and I were married fifteen years ago. He was always leaving me, sometimes, for months, then he'd come back." She paused, and her voice broke. "Five years ago he left and didn't come back."

Her voice trailed off, and her eyes brimmed with tears. I felt sorry for Lucille, as well as embarrassed for her. Funny, it always embarrasses me when someone bares his soul.

Sam laughed uneasily as Lucille blinked to keep from weeping.

She spoke hurriedly, as though to get it over with. "Maybe none of you will be able to understand this. I probably should have had more pride, but I lost that a long time ago, where Sheik was concerned." She paused, moistening her dry lips before continuing. "This may sound overly dramatic, but I spent every cent I could literally beg, borrow, or steal to trace Sheik. I invested in the services of a detective agency. A year ago, they traced him. That's when I showed up here."

She turned to Sam. "May I have a drink of water, please?"

Sam walked over to the sink and got the water. As soon as she had the glass in her hands, she gulped the drink down. Her hands shook.

Sheriff Johnson's voice grew loud. It echoed through the trailer. "Why did you keep your identity a secret?"

"I was afraid of Sheik," Lucille mumbled. "He could be very violent in his rages I didn't make any plans before I arrived, but in the back of my mind, I was sure I could get him back."

Sam gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder as she struggled to go on with her story.

"After my first meeting here with Sheik, I knew my plans were hopeless. He was abusive and frantic. In fact, he threatened me with bodily harm if I told anyone who I was, but ... but ... I couldn't . leave. I still hoped...."

Sheriff Johnson leaped to his feet, a triumphant gleam in his eyes as he interrupted her. "You couldn't get him back, so you killed him."

Lucille screamed hysterically. "No! No! I didn't! I swear I didn't! Why don't you talk to that slut who's posing at his wife?"

She dropped her head to her chest, sobbing wildly, her shoulders shaking.

My voice dripped sarcasm. "I always like to watch a cop do his stuff ... they have such finesse!"

"Can't Lucille go back to her trailer now?" Sam asked the sheriff.

I could see by his expression that he felt sorry for the poor broad.

Sheriff Johnson looked at the miserable woman for a long moment. "You can go, Mrs. O'Dea. But stay where I can find you at a moment's notice."

His voice held a definite threat.

Still sobbing, Lucille left the trailer.

"I've got to get back to the station, but I'll be around later," the sheriff said, turning to me. Then he added, "Don't get in too deep, Donlon. You'll only foul things up for everyone concerned."

"I'll try to give you the killer on a silver platter the next time I see you, Sheriff."

"Oh yeah? Well, better make it a platter studded with diamonds. You'll need them to hock after I get through with this case."

Sam and I both laughed as the sheriff and his deputy closed the door behind them. I didn't laugh long. This situation wasn't a laughing matter.