Authors: Sharon Lee
Carousel Sun (10 page)
The front door of Daddy’s Dance Club was ajar when I emerged from the breezeway, so I stepped in.
For something calling itself a dance club, Daddy’s was tiny. The bar, such as it was, was crammed into the front corner to the left of the door; a slightly raised stage was similarly crammed into the back right corner, and the rest—was floor: black, somewhat sandy and scruffed-up floor. A white line had been painted about six paces out from the wall, all the way around the room, widening to accommodate the bar and stage areas. I guessed that was where those who were taking a breather, or who were having a drink stood.
“Club ain’t open yet!” a man’s voice greeted me. “Come back later, doll.”
I turned to the right, where a burly, bald-headed guy with a walrus mustache, and wearing a white-and-blue-striped muscle shirt, had stepped through the door to what must be the storeroom, a white carton with
VODKA
printed on it in red letters held on his shoulder as effortlessly as if it was a teddy bear.
“I’m here to talk to the manager.”
He came across the floor and set the box on the bar, dusted his hands, and turned to look at me, hands on hips.
“You’re talking to the manager. I ain’t hiring, and even if I was, you’re too short to see over the bar.”
“I come with my own stool,” I told him, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning against the wall. “But this is your lucky day; I’m not looking for work. I just want to make a friendly request.”
He gave me a measuring look, up and down, sighed, and leaned an elbow on the bar.
“Look, doll, I’m restocking here, all right? Come back at closing time, and I’ll maybe be open to a friendly request.”
A man with priorities, by God.
“I’ll bear that in mind. In the meantime, I wonder if you’d mind setting the returnables out in their own box for pickup.”
He frowned, the mustache taking a threatening turn.
“Why the hell should I?”
“Because you made a deal with somebody that they could have the returnables. When you throw ’em in the Dumpster, you’re making her dive for ’em; you act like you don’t honor your deal; and you put your contractor in danger. Plus,” I added, “Dumpster diving’s illegal, and you’re aiding and abetting.”
His once-over this time was considerably more sour.
“You a cop?”
“Nope. You want I should call one?”
“Got ’em on speed-dial, thanks. So, who
are
you?”
“Kate Archer. I run the merry-go-round.”
“She’s a friend of yours? The little can freak?”
“She’s somebody I know, and no more a freak than anybody else trying to get by.”
He snorted, averted his gaze, looked back.
“What the hell; no skin off my nose. Sure, we’ll put out a box. No sense having her break her neck.” He glared at me. “I don’t gotta give her nothing.”
“That’s right; you don’t. She threaten you?”
This time, he laughed, hard and short.
“Oh, yeah, she threatened me, all right. Nah. Just . . . I know some guys, all right? Went away, did a job, come back—well, maybe not all of ’em come all the way back. So, anyhow, one of them does what she does—the cans. Keeps him in smoke money. Charity. I can afford charity. I only give her the soda cans; the liquor bottles and the beer, they gotta go back to the distributor.”
He looked at me hard and I nodded to show I understood.
“I’d just been throwing the soda cans into the trash, since I got three sort bins under the bar as it is. I guess I can live with four.” He shrugged and repeated. “No sense having her break her neck.”
“I appreciate it,” I told him. “I’ve known Gaby a long time and I wouldn’t want to see her hurt.”
“Yeah . . .” Another hard look. “You got everything you wanna say off your chest, now? ’Cause I still gotta restock.”
I pushed away from the wall, turned—and turned back.
“What’s your name?”
He was already halfway back to the stockroom door. Back to me, he raised his hands shoulder high, and shook his head.
“You just call me Daddy, doll. Now get outta here and let a guy work.”
Mr. Ignat’ was sitting at a picnic bench in Fountain Circle, bent over a newspaper. I sat down across from him.
“Anything interesting?”
“Good morning, Katie.” He looked up with a smile, eyes shadowed by his hat. “It’s all interesting, my dear. Puzzling, but interesting. There is this story, here, however . . .” He looked down and tapped a column with a long, white forefinger, pushing the paper half across the table toward me.
I leaned close.
T
WO
M
ORE
A
RRESTED
IN
D
RUG
B
UST
It was a short story, but a happy one, if you happen to be the sort of person who rejoices in the tribulations of your enemies. The two referenced were Albert Stilton and Johnny Gagnon—not Joe Nemeier. Still, it was all but certain that they worked for the man; Archers Beach wasn’t big enough to support two drug lords. Nemeier had to be sweating, now. If one of those kiddies actually knew who they worked for, and mentioned it to the—
“Hold it,” I said, coming out of my pleasant daydream and looking down at the paper again. “Albert Stilton?”
“So it states, Katie dear. Do you know him?”
I shook my head. “No . . . I was just this morning helping the new midway manager sort out the employee log and one of the names I couldn’t help her with was Stilton. No first name.”
“It’s not impossible that they’re the same person,” Mr. Ignat’ commented.
“No. And it doesn’t matter, I guess. If it’s the same guy, I’m guessing he’s not going to be available for work for the next little while, anyhow.” I looked up.
“Mr. Ignat’, do you remember Jens? He was the midway manager until he got fired at the end of last Season.”
He frowned slightly, and I saw him feeling back among memories that must be nothing more than mist and moonlight. After a few long minutes, he shook his head.
“I don’t have much to do with the midway side, after all, Katie. What do you need to know?”
“Well, I don’t exactly
need
to know; I just wondered if Jens was
trenvay
. The land doesn’t seem to remember him, so I’m guessing that’s my answer. Only . . .”
“Only?”
“Well, he had
trenvay
working for him—almost exclusively
trenvay
working in the midway.” With the exception of three names the land didn’t recognize, one of those maybe belonging to somebody who worked the dark side—who worked for
the major
dark-side provider in this section of the Maine coast.
Well, there’s a Mainer for you—almost all of us hold three and four jobs, side jobs and sides of side jobs.
I’m kind of a slacker, that way.
“So!” I said brightly. “What’s today’s lesson?”
Mr. Ignat’ folded the paper carefully and put it on the bench next to him.
“Today,” he said, placing his hands, palms up, in the very center of the table. “Today, Pirate Kate, you will learn to trust your power.”
Trust my . . .
I looked down at those long, white hands lying defenseless and inviting on the rough concrete, and felt my stomach clench in horror.
“No,” I said, and snatched my own hands back, down to the bench, and deliberately tucked them beneath my posterior.
“Come now, Pirate Kate! Will ye be called craven?”
“Yes.
Hell
, yes! Call me every kind of coward you can think of! You want me to—what? Hold your hands? I’ll
kill
you!”
“You will only do what you intend to do, Katie. If you intend to kill me, then I’ll not dispute you. All I have is yours for the asking; there’s no need to steal.” He wriggled his fingers. “Now, come, and give me a true comrade’s grip.”
I shook my head, shivering with horror, feeling again the crawl of Ramendysis’ power across my skin. Watching my hand rise against my specific desire and direct command that it remain at my side—
“No. I won’t do this.”
Mr. Ignat’ sighed.
“Katie. Do you think I haven’t seen that you’re keeping yourself at arm’s length? That you don’t touch your grandmother, who would surely be glad of your comfort? Or your mother, who needs to be certain of your love? That you won’t touch me—well. There are reasons a-plenty, aren’t there, for you to be shy of touching me? But if you continue down that road, you’ll become isolated, Katie. Just you and your power, solitary and fearful.
That
is the condition which produces the monster you so fear that you’ll become. Connection and intention—those things
matter
. Your power does not shape you; you shape your power.”
He lifted his arms, shot his cuffs, and put his hands once more on the table between us, palms up, fingers relaxed.
I stared at them, remembering . . . Remembering the two of us watching Saturday morning cartoons, laughing at the hapless coyote, falling for the millionth time into the abyss. I remembered the taste of a grilled blueberry muffin, and him smiling at me across the table at Bob’s. I remembered holding his hand as we went outside so that I could explore my very first snow.
I remembered him drawing my enemy’s fire, though it was certain to kill him, to give me time . . .
To give me time to run.
Kill Mr. Ignat’? I couldn’t kill Mr. Ignat’. It wasn’t in me. Hell, I’d almost gotten myself killed, because I wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave him to be murdered in my stead.
I slipped my hands free and brought them up to hover over the table, and then settled them, gently . . . affectionately . . . my palms against his palms.
His skin was warm, maybe a little too warm. He was a Fire Ozali, after all. I curled my fingers around his wrists and closed my eyes.
I could feel his power moving under his skin like blood. I could taste it—not butterscotch. Something . . . edgier. Dark chocolate and cayenne. I breathed in his power, took it deep into my lungs.
My own store of
jikinap
. . . stirred.
Stirred, but didn’t rise. Instead, it seemed to be . . . interested. More, it seemed to be
learning
. Like a filtering program, I thought. And remembered that I built some damn’ fine filtering programs.
I don’t know how long I—we—sat there, holding hands in the morning sunshine. All I knew is that I reached a . . . saturation, a . . . certainty that I knew this man, that I treasured all that he was; that his power and mine were aligned, and I would never mistake him for an enemy.
I sighed, feeling it shudder through both of us, opened my eyes and looked into his.
He smiled, and nodded, his fingers curled around my wrists, like mine around his. True comrades.
I felt . . . peaceful. Calm.
I felt my
jikinap
curled at the base of my spine, comfortable as a cat.
“There, then.” Mr. Ignat’ said, as we slowly released each other and sat back. “Well done, Pirate Kate. Well done, indeed.”
CHAPTER TEN
High Tide 10:56
A.M.
EDT
I sat at the picnic bench by myself for a few minutes after Mr. Ignat’ left, just enjoying the sunshine, and the breeze. Overhead, the flags—U.S., Canadian, and Maine—snapped smartly, and eventually reminded me that I had a couple calls to make.
Gran picked up her cell almost before I hit speed-dial.
“Good morning,” I said. “Expecting me?”
“Good morning,” was the composed answer. “Certainly I was expecting an important call.”
“I can hang up,” I offered, “let you call me back after you’ve dealt with the big one.”
“No, no. Your call came in first, after all.”
“If you’re sure . . .” I shifted sideways on the bench and put my right foot up on it.
“Listen, Gran, is there any cut tupelo left? I’d need about a hundred fifty board feet.”
There was a moment of silence, long enough to be noticeable.
“I got somebody willing to make us a replacement horse, from scratch,” I said, to save her the trouble of saying,
It depends
. “If we’ve got the wood, the price is reasonable. More than reasonable.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Kyle Roberts, the fine carpenter who’s working with Joan Anderson. That job’s just about finished up and he wants to have a summer at the ocean, so he’s trying to line up more work. Says he worked with a custom carousel horse-maker, and that he knows what he’s doing. I still have to check that reference, but I thought first I’d see . . .”
“If he checks out to your satisfaction, Katie, then yes, there is sufficient wood for the project, and it can be delivered inside of Archers Beach.” Another small pause. “He
will be
working in Archers Beach?”
“I’ll make sure, but as far as I know, he is.”
“Good,” Gran said, sounding a little breathless, and again, “good.”
“You okay?” I asked, concerned.
“Just tired, child. I’m a little old for adventures, you know.”
Especially adventures that separated her from her tree and sent her across the World Wall, to steal her daughter back from a vindictive lord, and run home, pursued by close-enough-to-demons.
“Just . . . take care, okay? Oh, and Gran?”
“Yes?”
“The MDEA picked up two more of Mr. Nemeier’s employees on the overnight. He’s liable to be testy.”
“We have nothing to do with that man,” Gran said loftily. “If he comes here, the Wood will protect us.”
I did not sigh.
“Okay, then,” I said, briskly. “Let me check Kyle’s reference, and if he’s good, we’ll get him the wood and let him get to work.”
“Yes. Thank you, Katie. Come and see us again before the Season starts; I know you’ll be too busy to come, during.”
“Actually, maybe not. But, I will come up on Monday; fill you in with all the news. Give Mother my love.”
Yet a third small pause, and then Gran said, “I will, of course. I love you, Katie. Good-bye now.”
“Love you,” I said. “Bye.”
“Kyle Roberts?”
In contrast to Gran, it had taken Michael Trenton eight rings to get to the phone. I’d expected the call to go to voice mail, and jumped a little, there on my sunny seat, when a man’s voice yelled into my ear, “HehLO?”
I identified myself and my mission.
“Kyle Roberts?” he repeated. “Sure, I remember Kyle. Good worker. Good eye. Not an artist. Solid, though.” Pause. “You need something artistic?”
I thought about the lopsided bobcat, the scruffy bear and the out-of-proportion coon cat.
“Actually, I need solid. My machine’s an original, and some of the critters are a little rugged as they stand.”
“Kyle’s your man, then,” Michael Trenton assured me. “You tell ’im what you want, and leave ’im to it. Good worker, Kyle. Hire him back myself in a New York minute. Problem is, too much work for one, not enough work for two.”
“Always the way,” I agreed.
“Ain’t it? Anything else I can tell you?”
“No, thanks—you’ve been very helpful.”
“No problem at all, Ms. Archer. Glad to help out. Tell Kyle to stop on by, next time he’s down in the old neighborhood. Like to see ’im. Catch up.”
“I’ll tell him,” I promised, and we said our good-byes and hung up.
Kyle’s phone
did
send me to voice mail, after three scant rings. I left a message saying that he was hired, that I needed to know where the wood should be delivered, and he should look Mike Trenton up, the next time he was in the neighborhood.
That done, I folded the phone and stood up, slipping it away into the pocket of my jacket. Between Mr. Ignat’s lesson and the phone calls, it was almost time to meet Vassily at the carousel.
I stretched, took a deep breath of slightly dusty air, and strolled across Fountain Circle, heading for Fun Country.
“All right,” I told Vassily a couple hours later. “I think you’ve learned everything I can teach you. Now, what I want to know is—how brave are you?”
He stiffened. “It is a joke?”
“Nope; completely serious.” I said. “You’ve been doing fine while I was here watching you. I’m wondering how you’d like to run the whole thing by yourself while I take a walk.”
I saw it dawn on him; that this was a test—and, more, that he was going to be running his four hours per day, every day, once the Season got under way, all by his lonesome.
“I am brave. I have learned. I will demonstrate. Please to walk and take the air. I will do everything that is necessary.”
“I’m sure you will,” I told him. “I’ve got every confidence in you. If something that we haven’t covered should happen, or you need me here, for any reason at all, you just hit speed-dial on your phone and I’ll come back. All right?”
One of the better ideas the Chamber had had this year was to provide each greenie with a recycled cell phone, preprogrammed with important numbers—like their contact at the Chamber, the number of the on-site boss, and the Archers Beach Fire and Police departments. Since Vassily was working for me, we’d added my cell number to the rest.
“I will not need to call you back from your walk,” he told me haughtily.
“Careful.” I lifted a finger. “Confidence is good. Overconfidence—not so good. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes, unless you call me in earlier.”
“Yes,” he said.
I grabbed my jacket, though I didn’t really need it, slung it over my shoulder and walked away, nodding to a young couple with a toddler, who were coming in. The toddler was riding daddy’s shoulders, and yelling, “Kitty, kitty,
kitty
!”
“That’s right, Sasha,” the mom said, “we’ll get you a ride on the kitty.”
Good
, I thought.
About time the coon cat got the love
. I liked it, myself, odd-looking or not.
“Welcome,” I heard Vassily say behind me. “Welcome to the Carousel of Fantasy! The fare is two tickets each—but for Sasha, a free ride!”
So far, so good. I stepped out into Baxter Avenue, and looked about me.
It was a goodish crowd this afternoon, with the fine weather doing its part for fun and profit. There was a line maybe six deep to get onto Summer’s Wheel, and another line at Tony Lee’s. I could hear the thunder and rumble from Dodge City, ’way down to the left, and squeals and laughter from a group of preteens at the lobster toss.
“Ms. Archer?” a voice said from the vicinity of my elbow.
I turned and met the serious brown eyes of a girl about twelve years old.
“I’m Kate Archer,” I admitted. “What can I do for you?”
She pulled a flat, creamy envelope about the size of her two hands together out of the canvas bag slung over her shoulder.
“I’m delivering invitations to Wishes,” she said, sounding only a little bit like this part was rote. She placed the envelope into my hand. “Please come,” she said, and this sounded sincere. “It’ll be fun.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promised, and slipped the envelope into the pocket of my jacket, watching absently as she made her way over to Summer’s Wheel, bypassing the line to get to the operator’s station.
So Joan Anderson was a woman of her word. She’d said “reception” and by gum, a reception there would be.
Determination. I like that in a woman.
Which reminded me of somebody else I ought to talk to. I turned right on Baxter Avenue, waving at Anna as I left the park, and crossed Fountain Circle.
The gate had been latched, but not locked, which I took as an invitation for those with an interest to come inside, so I slipped through, making sure the latch was secure behind me.
What a difference six hours can make.
The tarps were gone. Milk bottles were set up in a complex pattern in the center of one stand; new wire’d been strung across the main yard, and three guys on three ladders were screwing in lightbulbs fit to beat the band.
Speaking of band, somebody was dinking with the sound system—the midway had its own music piped in, not that it could usually be heard over the noise of people having fun, but it was a mood-setter for the early hours, and for other times when nothing much was doing. Over in Fun Country, each ride took care of its own ambiance, including music.
I passed two women assembling an ice cream stand. One was attaching the awnings, while the other was head and shoulders inside the giant ice cream cone, maybe working with the wiring or the lights.
Over and around the music were the sounds of hammers, bandsaws, and people calling back and forth. The place was a madhouse—no. No; it wasn’t.
Madhouse
implies motion without meaning; action without purpose. There was plenty of purpose in the air, and intention so thick you could cut it with a knife.
I moved down the midway, careful to keep out from underfoot, and watchful, lest I get whacked in the head with a ladder.
At The Last Mango, I slipped behind the counter and stuck my head through the door to the manager’s office.
Peggy wasn’t there, which made a certain amount of sense, given all the activity going on, and really, I thought, my question was answered.
Word had gone out, and the
trenvay
had come in.
I exited the Mango, jacket held over my shoulder by a hooked finger, and looked around.
Bustle, busy bustle. At this rate, they’d have the midway good to open by noon tomorrow.
I retraced my steps, heading down the midway, and back toward Fountain Circle. At the corner, I dodged around a small mountain of ropes outside a three-sided barricade bearing the sign ROPE MONKEY.
That, unfortunately, put me into the path of an oncoming ladder. I ducked, felt my jacket slide off my shoulder, and spun—
Into something soft, that yelled in my ear.
“Kate!”
Hands grabbed my shoulders, holding me upright until I got my feet under me.
“Peggy! I was looking for you.”
“Two minds with one thought,” she said, letting me go, and reaching down to snatch my jacket.
“Hey, I’m sorry about—oh, damn.”
She swooped down again, and came up with the jacket in one hand and the big white envelope, now slightly smeared with grit, in the other.
“Thanks.” I took both and stood holding them, while she looked around, and pointed to a quiet spot in the commotion.
I nodded and followed, and we leaned our elbows against the counter of what would soon be, unless I missed my guess, a marksman’s gallery.
“Thank you!” Peggy said. “I’d hoped to maybe start seeing a couple folks tomorrow—Monday. You weren’t gone an hour when the first one came in, then three more, and six more after that. They all know what they’re doing, and—well, hell, the best thing for me to do was just step back and let ’em do it. So! I’ve spread the word that, at four o’clock, we’re all knocking off for pizza and introductions, followed by a form-filling session. I should have the schedules done by tomorrow, we’ll do a shakedown on Tuesday and be ready for ignition Friday at noon.”
She gave a deep sigh.
“Let me tell you what, this crew is
good
. No wonder Jens didn’t hassle ’em and paid ’em in cash. Hell, I’d pay ’em in
gold
, if that’s what it took!”
“Better not say that too loud,” I said, only half-joking. “I’m glad they’re working for you. I came over to ask if you’d heard, but, really—moot point.”
“Yeah, but I’m glad you came by. I owe you. Big time. You need anything—a new Cadillac, a body buried—I’m your girl.”
I laughed. “I’ll bear it in mind. Meanwhile . . .”
I’d been going to take my leave, but I glanced down at the hand holding my invitation and an idea was born.
“Hey, do you know Joan Anderson?”
“Here-in-town Joan Anderson?” Peggy shook her head. “Here in town, I know you—and them.” She jerked her head in the general direction of the midway.
“Then you wouldn’t’ve gotten one of these. Hold on.” I slipped my finger under the flap, broke the seal and pulled out the card.
The front was a watercolor of the horse she’d been sketching on the day I met her. The inside said:
Season Opener
Wishes Art Gallery
Thursday, June 15
8
P.M.
until the food runs out
Come yourself—and bring a friend!
I turned it around so Peggy could read it.
