Unraveled (4 page)

“Anyway, Linda woke up with Hubert across her chest, bleeding from the scalp. She screamed bloody murder. That's when Hubert's wife saw the dead snake on the floor commenced to beating it 'til the skillet's handle broke off and the pan slapped Linda in the side of the head, causing
it
to bleed.

“About that time Ned here rolled up to check on everyone after he got a call there was a disturbance. He knew we'd all been drinking, 'cause he saw Hubert come back from across the river earlier in the day.”

When Graham paused to take a breath, Ned picked up the story. “That's when I heard the commotion in the trailer and when I pushed through, I saw Linda screaming on the floor with Hubert laying across her and his wife standing there with that broke handle in her hand. There was blood everywhere, so I spent the next two hours sortin' out what happened.”

“So now you've heard the story and I ain't telling it again.”

O.C. had been laughing so hard his sides were hurting. “What kind of snake was it?”

Graham looked embarrassed. “Just an ol' rat snake. Anyway, I'm trying to sell the trailer, if anybody wants one. It has a hole in the floor, though.”

O.C. leaned forward, knowing something good was coming down the pike. “How'd it get a hole in the floor?”

Graham shrugged. “You know how snakes are, they'll still move or twitch or curl even when they're dead. Well, my cousin Benny came in and thought it was still alive and shot that dead snake with his .410.”

Graham paused. “I'll sell it cheap.”

“I bet you will,” O.C. grunted, waved to Frenchie for more coffee.

“Oh, I remember why I came in here in the first place. Ned, some carnival folks asked me if they could set up in that pasture I have out near the army camp on Highway 271. They can't get the fairgrounds for some reason, so I told them yeah.”

O.C. grunted and tasted his coffee. “They can't get on the fairgrounds because they run crooked games.” Ned and Graham raised their eyebrows at the same time. O.C. waited a beat before continuing. “They were talking about it after the city council meeting here while back. They say the games are rigged, so they've been uninvited since the last time they were here.”

Ned sighed. “That means they'll be fleecing folks in my precinct. I hope you get paid good for all this trouble.”

Graham brightened. “The feller I talked to said they'd give me ten percent of the gate.”

“You get that in writing?”

“Sure enough.”

“Well, it probably won't be enough, because they sure saw you coming.”

“Why come?”

“Carnies don't make their money at the gate. They make it from the games.”

Graham's face fell. “I thought it was a good deal.”

“It is for them. I reckon I'll have to go over there and have a talk with 'em. When do they plan to open?”

“Tonight.”

“Fine then.” Ned gathered up his hat. “That'll be all right. I'll run over there and check on them.”

“Well, I just wanted you to know.”

Ned shrugged. “There shouldn't be any problems with that.”

Chapter Eight

The Wraith had arms made of whipcord and sinew. He cracked the knuckles of his leathery hands and waited in the hot, still woods, remembering. He was back in his hometown of Center Springs for the first time in four years.

***

Ned turned off Texas Route 271, the main highway from Chisum to Oklahoma, as the sun sank toward the trees. He pulled into Graham Booth's pasture not far from the decommissioned Camp Maxey army camp.

It was once a bustling facility during World War II, training nearly 50,000 troops. By the time the carnival arrived, the army camp was only a shadow of what it had been, with a few offices and a building that most locals referred to as the powder magazine.

Booth's barbed-wire fence was down, and the crooked bodark posts they'd pulled from the ground were stacked a hundred yards away to provide access to the open area swarming with cars and trucks. Ned pulled off the highway and across the culvert to the impromptu parking lot already identified by cars lined up in rows.

A wide banner stretched across the newly erected entrance read: The One and Only Patterson and Bates Dreamland Exposition!

Tents sprouted from the grass trampled by a small army of rough-looking men and women who were putting the finishing touches on rides and game booths. Ned threaded his way through tangles of ropes and cables, passing the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Skydiver, a sign for “Oddities of the World,” and a cotton candy stand. There were already a few curious patrons drifting through the bustle.

“Can I help you?” A long-haired young woman in patched jeans balanced a toddler on her cocked hip. A cigarette dangled from her lips and Ned noticed her sneakers were filthy. Dried mud flaked off her bell bottom cuffs.

“I 'magine you can. Who's running things here?”

“Delmar Hopkins.”

“You know where I can find him?”

She reset the snotty-nosed toddler to a more comfortable position. The little girl watched him with wide, unimpressed eyes. “I saw him by the Ring Toss a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks.” Ned left her and walked down the growing midway that was five times larger than any traveling carnival he'd ever seen. A man with wavy gray hair curling over his collar held a clipboard and issued orders to a pair of ragged middle-aged carnies. Ned hadn't seen anyone dressed so shabby since the Depression.

The silver-haired man's eyes flicked to the stranger and the small gold badge on his shirt. “Howdy Sheriff.”

“Constable. Constable Ned Parker.”

They shook. “Name's Delmar Hopkins. Help you?”

“Naw, I just dropped by to say howdy. This is my precinct and I like to keep an eye on whatever's coming or going around here.”

“Glad to have you.”

“When are you firing all this up?”

“Tonight.”

Ned nodded like he hadn't already known the answer to his question. “And you'll be here how long?”

“Until the crowds fall off. Usually a week or ten days.”

“I'd have expected y'all to be at the fairgrounds in town.”

Delmar's eyes flickered. “They want too much of the gate in Chisum. We'll make more here.”

“Um hum.” Ned's comment told Delmar that he didn't believe him, and the carnie boss saw it.

“You want a tour?”

“Naw.” Ned paused. “Just wanted to know who was running things. You make a lot of money off these games going up here?”

“Enough to put groceries on the table. Folks love the games.”

“They win very much?”

“Sure do. See all these prizes they're unloading? We'll go through most of 'em before we leave.”

“I bet you will.” Ned studied the cheap dolls and even cheaper plastic toys and stuffed animals that local boys would try to win for their girlfriends and wives. A cluster of giant colored hippos hung from the game's roof and down the sides. He pointed to shelf of transistor radios, low-end binoculars, and a tin spyglass. “Some of those look expensive.”

“Those are the
big
prizes, but a lot of them will walk out the gate with the rube…the customers.”

“Rubes. Marks. Chump. Mooch. Clems…”

“All right.” Delmar's face fell. “You know the lingo.”

“I know quite a bit. I know the ring on that Basketball Toss is barely bigger'n the ball, and that it has so much air it'll bounce to China if they throw it hard enough. I know the bottles are weighted in the Milk Bottle Toss.”

Delmar scowled and shrugged the dingy coat back on his shoulders as the men beside him faded away.

“Here's the deal. Folks'll come out to have fun, but I want them treated right. Don't stack the milk bottles against the back wall, and don't use them that's weighted so heavy. I know how this works even down to the Duck Pond. I expect you mostly give more than ninety-five percent slum prizes for these…rubes, but I'll tolerate say, sixty-five or seventy percent.”

Delmar flinched. Slum prizes, the cheapest plastic toys cost little to give away and kept the rubes interested, because they got at least
something
for their money and it gave them hope, urging them to play again. But if his gamers had to increase the distribution of their better prizes like the large stuffed animals or even the transistor radios displayed at the forefront of their booths, the amount of take-home for the carnies would be dramatically less.

Scowling, Delmar hunched his shoulders and listened as Ned continued.

“If I hear of anything crooked, I'll come out here with a dozen deputies and we'll start looking real hard at the rest of the games and the folks working here. There's a few I saw ducking around corners who's liable to have warrants.

“Now, I'm going home in a little bit and after supper, I intend to get out all my wanted posters and go through 'em one by one. If I see anybody that looks familiar when I come back, we're gonna have a talk about aiding and abetting. You get me?”

“I got you.” Delmar's flat voice matched the look in his eyes. He reached in his pocket. “How much will it take…?”

“Get that hand out of your pocket. I ain't taking no bribes. You run this straight or you can pack it up and string Graham's fence back together.”

Delmar's hand came out empty and he smoothed his oiled hair. “Fine, then.”

“Good. Let these folks have a good time and win some.”

They stood in silence for a long moment while Delmar waited for more. When nothing else came, he sighed loud and long. “Were you a carney?”

“Nope, but I've been at this a long time.”

“I expect you'll be here every night?”

“Most likely.”

The carney studied his worn out shoes. “You want some tickets?”

“Naw. I won't need a ticket to get in.”

The man's faint smile faded.

“Oh, by the way, make sure them rides are safe, too. I don't want nobody hurt around here.”

Ned left, passing the young woman with the baby. His demeanor changed and he stopped to let the toddler grab his finger. He handed the woman a folded bill with his other hand. “This is for you to get this baby some clothes. She looks like she could use some shoes and something for that runny nose. What's her name?”

She spoke around the cigarette bobbing in the corner of her mouth. “Amanda.”

“Yours?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You asking for professional reasons, or personal?”

“I like to know who's in my county.”

“Did you ask the rest of these carneys around here?”

“Nope, but none of them others' got a baby on their hip, neither.”

She studied on his answer for a second. “Connie.”

“Howdy Connie. Don't you blow that money on cigarettes. They're gonna kill you, you know.”

“If they don't something else will.” The woman blew smoke from her nostrils without taking the toonie from her lips. “Thanks Sheriff.”

Ned sighed, “Constable,” and left.

Chapter Nine

A wheezing International pickup pulled off the highway and up our drive, trailing a cloud of blue smoke. It was after breakfast on Sunday and I was in the hay barn with Grandpa, helping him put out some nuggets for the cows. Neither he nor Miss Becky considered that work, no more'n her cooking breakfast or the dinner already simmering on the stove.

He slapped a lid on the 55-gallon barrel and walked to the front of the truck backed halfway into the pole barn's hall. “You recognize that truck?”

I hopped into the bed and leaned over the top of the cab. The pickup pulled up the slight incline and parked behind Grandpa's Plymouth. “Nossir.”

Half a dozen black-haired kids rode in the back, and the cab looked to be full of people. You could squeeze four folks into those Internationals, if they were kinfolk and didn't mind rubbing shoulders, but it looked to me like they'd packed in at least seven, four adults with little kids on their laps. That explained why the driver's whole arm and shoulder was out the window.

I could tell he was Indian right off, most likely Choctaw, 'cause that's what we had the most of around our part of the state. The truck idled while Hootie gave it a good barkin'. Miss Becky came out on the porch. We couldn't hear what she was saying, but she talked to someone through the window. Grandpa left the front fender and took a step toward the house.

The passenger door opened. My breath caught when Miss Becky threw up her hands, the dish towel flying overhead.

Grandpa jolted when her scream drug us. He reached in the front pocket of his overalls, pulled out his pistol, and started downhill. “Mama!”

I jumped up on the cab. The biggest kid in the back threw something over the side of the truck. I'd been watching
The Rat Patrol
on TV the night before and expected it to blow up like one of those satchel charges. He followed it and run at Miss Becky. I shouted and waved my hands, hoping to attract their attention so she could get away.

The guy's long black hair was flying every which-a-way as he charged up on the porch and grabbed Miss Becky. She shrieked and started beating him on the back.

Grandpa raised his pistol, but couldn't shoot because the truck was directly in line between him and the front porch.

I came off the cab, running downhill until my momentum threw me off balance and I knew I was gonna fall. Instead of landing flat on my face, I tucked a shoulder and rolled with it, coming back onto my feet and passing Grandpa in an instant.

He had his pistol pointed and was hollerin' for Miss Becky to run. “Top! Stay out of the way!” I heard his feet pounding behind me, but much slower and heavier.

I was through the open gate when Miss Becky shoved the guy away, but she didn't run, and she didn't let go, neither. That's when I saw she wasn't fighting, but hugging somebody. I slid to a stop and waved my hands. “Grandpa! Don't shoot!”

He heard me and lowered the .38, his face was white as a sheet. “What?”

“They ain't fighting! They're huggin'!”

“Well, who is it then?”

The guy looked our way and I started hollering too.

It was my best friend, Mark Lightfoot.