William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

In the coach, under the dimmed lights, the crowd of carnival performers and concessioners sprawled, huddled, heads on each others’ shoulders; some had stretched themselves on newspapers in the aisles. In the corner of a seat Molly slept, her lips slightly parted, her head against the glass of the black window.

How helpless they all looked in the ugliness of sleep. A third of life spent unconscious and corpselike. And some, the great majority, stumbled through their waking hours scarcely more awake, helpless in the face of destiny. They stumbled down a dark alley toward their deaths. They sent exploring feelers into the light and met fire and writhed back again into the darkness of their blind groping.

At the touch of a hand on his shoulder Stan jerked around. It was Zeena. She stood with her feet apart, braced easily against the train’s rhythm. “Stan, honey, we don’t want to let what’s happened get us down. God knows, I felt bad about Pete. And I guess you did too. Everybody did. But this don’t stop us from living. And I been wondering… you still like me, don’t you, Stan?”

“Sure-sure I do, Zeena. Only I thought-”

“That’s right, honey. The funeral and all. But I can’t keep up mourning for Pete forever. My mother, now-she’d of been grieving around for a year but what I say is, it’s soon enough we’ll all be pushing ’em up. We got to get some fun. Tell you what. When we land at the next burg, let’s us ditch the others and have a party.”

Stan slid his arm around her and kissed her. In the swaying, plunging gait of the train their teeth clicked and they broke apart, laughing a little. Her hand smoothed his cheek. “I’ve missed you like all hell, honey.” She buried her face in the hollow of his throat.

Over her shoulder Stan looked into the car of sleepers. Their faces had changed, had lost their hideousness. The girl Molly had waked up and was eating a chocolate bar. There was a smudge of chocolate over her chin. Zeena suspected nothing.

Stan raised his left hand and examined it. On the ball of the ring finger was a dark streak. Daub. He touched his tongue to it and then gripped Zeena’s shoulder, wiping the stain on the black dress.

They broke apart and pushed down the aisle to a pile of suitcases where they managed to sit. In her ear Stan said, “Zeena, how does a two-person code work? I mean a good one-the kind you and Pete used to work.” Audiences in evening clothes. Top billing. The Big Time.

Zeena leaned close, her voice suddenly husky. “Wait till we get to the burg. I can’t think about nothing except you right now, honey. I’ll tell you some time. Anything you want to know. But now I want to think about what’s coming between the sheets.” She caught one of his fingers and gave it a squeeze.

In the baggage coach Major Mosquito turned over his hole card. “Three deuces of swords showing and one wild one in the hole makes four of a kind. Ha, ha, ha, ha. The Hanged Man! ”

When Stan woke up it was still dark. The electric sign which had been flaring on and off with blinding regularity, spelling out the name of Ayres’ Department Store, was quiet at last and the smeared windowpane was dark. Something had wakened him. The mattress was hard and sagging; against his back he felt the warmth of Zeena’s body.

Silently the bed shook and Stan’s throat tightened with a reflex of fear at the unknown and the darkness until he felt the shake again and then a muffled gasp. Zeena was crying.

Stan turned over and slid his arm around her and cupped her breast with his hand. She had to be babied when she got this way.

“Stan, honey-”

“What’s the matter, baby?”

Zeena turned heavily and pressed a damp cheek against his bare chest. “Just got to thinking about Pete.”

There was nothing to say to this so Stan tightened his arms around her and kept quiet.

“You know, today I was going through some of the stuff in the little tin trunk-Pete’s stuff. His old press books and old letters and all kinds of stuff. And I found the notebook he used to keep. The one he had the start of our code in. Pete invented that code himself and we were the only people that ever knew it. Pete was offered a thousand dollars for it by Allah Kismet-that was Syl Rappolo. He was one of the biggest crystal-workers in the country. But Pete just laughed at him. That old book was just like a part of Pete. He had such nice handwriting in them days…”

Stan said nothing but turned her face up and began kissing her. He was fully awake now and could feel the pulse jumping in his throat. He mustn’t seem too eager. Better love her up first, all the way if he could do it again.

He found that he could.

It was Zeena’s turn to keep quiet. Finally Stan said, “What are we going to do about your act?”

Her voice was suddenly crisp. “What about the act?”

“I thought maybe you were thinking of changing it.”

“What for? Ain’t we taking in more on the pitch than ever? Look, honey, if you feel you ought to be cut in for a bigger percentage don’t be bashful-”

“I’m not talking about that,” he interrupted her. “In this damn state nobody can write. Every time I stick a card and a pencil under the nose of some mark he says, ‘You write it for me.’ If I could remember all that stuff I could let ’em keep the cards in their pockets.”

Zeena stretched leisurely, the bed creaking under her. “Don’t you worry about Zeena, honey. When they can’t write their names they’re even more receptive to the answers. Why, I could quit the question-answering part of the act and just get up there and spiel away and then go into the pitch and still turn ’em.”

A thrill of alarm raced along Stan’s nerves at the thought of Zeena’s being able to do without him before he could do without her. “But I mean, couldn’t we work a code act? You could still do it, couldn’t you?”

She chuckled. “Listen, schniggle-fritz, I can do it in my sleep. But it takes a hell of a lot of work to get all them lists and things learned. And the season’s more than half over.”

“I could learn it.”

She thought for a while and then she said, “It’s all right with me, honey. It’s all down in Pete’s book. Only don’t you lose that book or Zeena’ll cut your ears off.”

“You have it here?”

“Wait a minute. Where’s the fire? Sure I’ve got it here. You’ll see it. Don’t go getting sizzle-britches.”

More silence. At last Stan sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “I better get back to that pantry they rented me for a room. We don’t want the townies here to get any more ideas than they’ve got already.” He snapped on the light and began to put on his clothes. In the garish light overhead Zeena looked haggard and battered like a worn wax doll. She had the sheet pulled over her middle but her breasts sagged over it. Her hair was in two brassy braids and the ends were uneven and spiky. Stan put on his shirt and knotted his tie. He slipped on his jacket.

“You’re a funny fella.”

“Why?”

“Getting all dressed up to walk thirty feet down the hall of a fleabag like this at four in the morning.”

Somehow Stan felt this to be a reflection on his courage. His face grew warm. “Nothing like doing things right.”

Zeena yawned cavernously. “Guess you’re right, kiddo. See you in the morning. And thanks for the party.”

He made no move to turn out the light. “Zeena, that notebook- Could I see it?”

She threw off the sheet, got up and squatted to snap open the suitcase. Does a woman always look more naked after you’ve had her, Stan wondered. Zeena rummaged in the bag and drew out a canvas-covered book marked “Ledger.”

“Now run along, honey. Or come back to bed. Make up your mind.”