Calamity Jayne Rides Again (10 page)

An intriguing thought occurred to me, and I looked over at Trooper Dawkins, who appeared to be in danger of catching that
infamous Macho, Macho Man bug that guys accompanying a girl on the midway invariably come down with.

"So, how do you like fair duty?" I asked. "Been doing it long? I'm here every year, and I don't recall seeing you in years
past." I batted my eyes at him. "And believe me, I would've remembered."

Trooper Dawkins laughed. "Actually this is my first fair," he replied, and I felt the bad little Tressa on my left shoulder
jab me with her tiny, but sharp, pitchfork. "Oh, I've been to fairs before," the unsuspecting trooper went on, "but having
been born and raised in the western part of Iowa, we didn't get to the state fair all that much."

Even better, that naughty little devil whispered in my ear.

"Oh, wow! Look at that giant Nemo!" I exclaimed, pointing at the large, overstuffed fish with bulging eyes and wide black
mouth hanging above progressively smaller Nemos. Orange balloons were inflated and fastened to a white board along the back
of the booth. "I just love Nemo, don't you?" I grabbed the trooper's elbow.

"Who the hell is Nemo?" he said. I gasped.

"You don't know Nemo? Shame on you, Trooper P. D. Dawkins," I said, and grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him over to the
stand. "That"—I pointed to the huge orange plush toy above us—"is Nemo. Just the coolest fish ever!" I performed a long, loud,
wistful sigh. "What I wouldn't give to win one of those," I said.

Trooper Dawkins looked the game over carefully. "You know these games are rigged, don't you?" he said. "It's almost impossible
to win."

I stuck out my lower lip in a pout and crossed my arms. "I didn't say you had to win one for me, Mr. Smokey Bear. But you
could try. Just once, couldn't you?" I put my hands together in a prayerful pose. "Pretty please?"

He smiled and put his hand in his pocket. Over his bent head, the game operator, Billy, a long-time carnival worker, gave
me a big wink, which I returned with relish. The trooper handed Billy a five-dollar bill in exchange for three darts.

"We have a brave young feller here hoping to win this here young lady a Nemo, folks," Billy barked into his bullhorn. "Step
up and see a winner. Everybody takes away a prize. Step right up."

"This ought to be a piece of cake for a trooper," I told Dawkins as he was lining up his first throw. "After all, don't your
people have to qualify with firearms regularly?" The trooper looked over at me and then returned his concentration to his
aim.

"I bet you're one of those sharpshooters, aren't you?" I continued, interrupting his concentration again. "I can tell. You're
one of those SWAT guys. You know, that tactical team where they kick in doors and storm the building?"

He smiled, his amusement a little less genuine than it had been previously, and focused his attention on his target and threw.

Fifteen dollars, nine darts, and three little plastic Nemos later, I was beginning to feel really guilty. The guy was bound
and determined to win me the grand prize. See if I ever listened to the temptress on my left shoulder again.

"It's okay," I told the totally torqued trooper. "I've had second thoughts. That orange would really clash with my bedroom
decor," I told him.

"No, no," he argued. "I want you to have Nimrod there."

"Uh, it's Nemo, and that's okay. The bulging eyes would probably give me nightmares anyway."

"Just three more darts," he said, and I could see that he wasn't about to let go of his pursuit of the huge fish. It was Hemingway's
Old Man, the Sea, and a giant mar-lin all over again.

"What if I threw the darts this time?" I suggested. "Then, win or lose, we're done. Deal?" I asked.

The trooper looked at Billy, back at the orange balloons, up at the huge Nimrods—I mean Nemos—then over at me.

"Go for it," he said.

I nodded at Billy, and he handed me three darts. A respectable crowd had gathered once Billy announced to the world that a
trooper was throwing. I planted my feet a good twelve inches apart, zeroed in on my target, and boom! The first balloon popped
like the backfire of my old Plymouth Reliant. I saw the surprised trooper glance in my direction. I braced myself, set, and
threw. boom! Balloon number two bought the farm. I could feel the intensity of the trooper's eyes on me as I adjusted my stance
for the last shot.

"Could I do the honors?" Dawkins reached out and gently removed the last remaining dart from my hand.

I looked over at him and watched as he let the last dart fly. kaboom! A chorus of claps and cheers erupted at Billy's Big
Fish stand.

"And we have a winner!" Billy screamed into the megaphone. "And that's how it's done, folks, and by none other than Calamity
Jayne and Smokey the Bear! Step right up and try your luck! A winner every time!"

Billy took a long hook and unfastened a giant Nemo from his collection and handed it to the trooper. Dawkins raised it over
his head and gave a he-man holler. The crowd erupted. He then handed it to me.

"Your Nimrod, your ladyship," he said with a courtly bow.

"It's Nemo," I said, and reached out and took the large orange fish with a shaky hand.

"Uh, no. This particular fish is hereinafter to be referred to as Nimrod," he said. "Which is what you think

I am if you think I didn't see that shyster hand you a new set of darts," he added.

I stared at him.

"And now I intend to trounce you soundly at the baseball toss, the whack-a-mole, and the frog launch. What do you have to
say to that, Miz Calamity?"

I grinned at the now cocky copper.

"Let the games begin, Smokey," I said. "Let the games begin."

"Okay, I think you've proven your point," the heavily laden trooper said, his flushed face peeking out from behind several
Simpsons collectible beer mugs and crystal cake platters courtesy of the dime toss (where the secret is to toss the dime up
into the air in a high arc so it drops directly onto a plate); an adorably ugly little brown mole from the whack-a-mole game
(the secret? Practice makes perfect); and a long-limbed amphibian a rather nauseating shade of green from the frog launch
game, where the trick is not to aim for the nearest lily pads as rank amateurs do, but instead launch that puppy—or froggie—as
high into the air as possible with absolutely no regard for the location of the lily pads. The position of the frog to be
launched is also key. When placing your frog on the catapult, fold the legs under its stomach, just like the little feller
would likely sit if he were actually alive.

"Just one more," I said, not ashamed to admit I'd caught a bit of the gambling bug. Okay, so in my case it wasn't as much
of a gamble—but I was sure enjoying the heck out of impressing this dishy peace officer.

"That one looks like a piece of cake," Dawkins said, pointing to the baseball toss with one of the frog's front legs.

I shook my head. "That's a flat joint," I told him, and he gave me a puzzled look. "Flat-out impossible to win," I explained.
"The vendor has been known to hide springs in the baskets after the state inspectors have done their pre-opening day walk-through."
I gave the carnival worker my best hello-slimeball look as we passed.

"Well, well, well. Look what we have here. Calamity Jayne finds Nemo."

I felt my lip curl involuntarily, and turned to find not only the biggest hemorrhoid on the midway, but my sister, Taylor,
beside him. I shoved one of Dawkins's little plastic Nemos at Rick Townsend. "Pompous ass finds a bathtub buddy?" I asked.

Townsend barely gave mini-Nemo a look. "Cute," he said, handing it to Taylor. "Looks like your friend here hit the jackpot."
I seethed, knowing he likely knew I'd done most of the winning. "Very impressive."

I raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it, though? Uh—P. D. here is a member of the state SWAT team," I told Townsend, realizing I didn't
even know the trooper's first name. "He's a real crackpot," I said, catching my mistake only after it tumbled off my lips.
Townsend always gets me flustered.

"Uh, don't you mean crack
shot
?" Rick asked, not bothering to hide his mirth. He reached out to shake the trooper's hand, which was occupied by critters,
so he ended up shaking the frog's ugly green leg.

"You know what I mean," I snapped. "What are you two doing on the midway? You planning to win a few toys for my baby sister
there?" I asked, hoping he got the not-so-subtle implication that I thought he was too old for Taylor.

"I think I'm a little past the toy stage, Tressa," Taylor interjected. "Besides, who has the bed full of Beanie Babies?"

"They're collectibles," I snapped. "That Princess Di bear is worth a small fortune." I wish. "Well, it's been fun and all,
but we were about to leave, so we'll catch you later."

"Ah, that's too bad. I thought maybe we could hold a friendly competition here," Townsend said. "Losers buy a round of drinks."

I frowned at Townsend and looked over at Taylor. "Haven't you been to the Bottoms Up once already?" I asked her.

"I ordered a cola," Taylor replied. "And, by the way, you're not my mother."

I gave her a closer look. That kind of comment was more like me than my good-natured sis.

"Okay. Whatever," I said.

"Since it appears your sister and her new friend—" Townsend said to Taylor, then stopped and looked at me, eyebrows raised,
expecting me to supply a name I didn't know.

"Patrick," Dawkins said, managing to hold out a hand to Taylor. "Patrick Dawkins, ISP two-three-two."

"As in Iowa State Patrol," I translated.

"Nice to meet you, Patrick." Taylor shook his hand, causing the froggie to fall to the dirty pavement. I retrieved and tucked
him under the trooper's arm.

"Since it appears Tressa and Patrick are not confident enough in their gaming abilities to take us on, I guess we'll move
along," Townsend continued.

Foolish man. He knew I was the undisputed queen of the midway and would step up to defend any challenge to my title.

"I think we have time for one more game. Right, Patrick?" I said, grabbing hold of his arm, causing the poor froggie to plop
again to the hard surface below. I scooped him up and stuffed his long, lanky legs in the waistband of my shorts.

"What's it to be, T?" Townsend asked, his eyes bright at the prospect of getting the best of me.

In his neverland dreams, I thought.

"Name your poison," he said.

"Whazz-up," I replied with a you're-dead-meat look, referring to the group game where each player is given a joystick that
controls a pitcher and the object is to keep that pitcher under a moving beer tap that spouts water. Whoever fills their pitcher
first is the winner.

"So be it," Townsend said. "And may the best pitcher-filler win."

Patrick and I left our assorted prizes in the care of Billy at the Big Fish booth and plopped down three bucks each, a bargain
to be able to put a conceited ranger in his place. Pitchers four and eight, I knew, moved with the greatest ease and since
my lucky number was eight, I chose that one. I raised my eyebrows when I saw Townsend select number four. No other contestants
anted up as we took our positions. I looked over at Taylor and gave her my funeral face. To Townsend I presented a prepare-to-eat-dirt
smirk. The bell rang and the race was on.

"And the winner is... number four!"

I stared at the pitchers in frustration. Townsend had beaten me by mere drops.

"How about a rematch?" I suggested, unwilling to end the night a loser.

Townsend stretched his well-shaped arms and rotated his head in a circular fashion. "That's it for me. Besides, I don't want
to have to carry any more heavy prizes out to the parking lot," he said. "Admit it, T. I beat you fair and square."

I wasn't so certain about that, but since 1 had no way to prove it, I let his comment pass.

"Whatever," I said my usual response when I don't want to acknowledge the possibility that someone else could be right. Especially
when that someone was Rick Townsend.

"Guess we owe you a beer," Patrick said, showing himself a gracious loser.

"Since it's so late, you'll give us a raincheck on that beer, won't you, Patrick?" Ranger Rick asked, so conciliatory it made
me want to hurl. "Monday night at ten at Bottoms Up?"

"Sure. Sounds great," Dawkins replied.

"Don't forget your prize there, Rick," the Whazz-up operator reminded Townsend. My eyes narrowed. "Rick," was it now? Something
was rotten in carney-land, me thought. I looked on as Rick surveyed the available prizes. He hesitated and looked over at
me. I stood, tapping my toe, thinking he was making more of a production of this than they did for Superbowl commercials.

"Sometime today would be nice," I said.

Rick turned back to the assorted animals, and I cursed under my breath when I saw him select a long purple snake with green
spots and a yellow underbelly.

He brought the reptile to where Taylor, Patrick, and I stood. He walked behind me, and I felt him drape the length of the
serpent over my shoulders and around my neck. A warmth poured over me that had nothing to do with the humidity of the night
or my feverish efforts to best him earlier. For some reason, I felt his bestowing his snake on me was some kind of symbol,
a sign that we were bound together. A primitive staking of a claim, if you will. I bit my lip to keep from misting up, only
to have Townsend grab the snake's head and pretend to sink its huge, hideous red fangs into my neck with a hiss, then slide
the snake from around my neck and place it, like a royal cloak, over my sister's shapely shoulders.

I felt tears coming in earnest now, and was so determined the wretched ranger not see them that I grabbed poor Patrick by
the arm so hard, he dropped a crystal glass plate. It shattered into a gazillion pieces.

"I'm so sorry, Patrick," I said.

Patrick grinned. "Truth be told, I'm glad you did it. I wasn't looking forward to walking to my patrol car holding a damned
cake plate."