William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

Zeena picked it up. “Man over there is wondering about something that’s going to happen to him and I want to say right here and now that I believe you’re going to get your wish. And I think it has something to do with travel. You want to make a trip somewheres. Isn’t that so? Well, I see some troubles on the road and I see a crowd of people-men, they are, asking a lot of questions. But I see the journey completed after a while, not as soon as you want to make it but after a while. And there’s a job waiting for you at the end of it. Job with good pay. It’s somewhere to the north of here; I’m positive of that.”

It was sure-fire. All of ’em want North, Stan thought. It was the dark alley, all over again. With a light at the end of it. Ever since he was a kid Stan had had the dream. He was running down a dark alley, the buildings vacant and black and menacing on either side. Far down at the end of it a light burned; but there was something behind him, close behind him, getting closer until he woke up trembling and never reached the light. They have it too-a nightmare alley. The North isn’t the end. The light will only move further on. And the fear close behind them. White and black, it made no difference. The geek and his bottle, staving off the clutch of the thing that came following after.

In the hot sun of noon the cold breath could strike your neck. In having a woman her arms were a barrier. But after she had fallen asleep the walls of the alley closed in on your own sleep and the footsteps followed.

Now the very country simmered with violence, and Stan looked enviously at the sculptured muscles of Bruno Hertz. It wasn’t worth the time and backbreaking effort it took to get that way. There must be an easier way. Some sort of jujitsu system where a man could use his brains and his agility. The Ackerman-Zorbaugh Monster Shows had never had a “Heyrube” since Stan had been with them, but the thought of one ate at his peace of mind like a maggot. What would he do in a mob fight? What would they do to him?

Then Sailor Martin nearly precipitated one.

It was a steaming day of late summer. The South had turned out: hollow-eyed women with children in their arms and clinging to their skirts, lantern-jawed men, deadly quiet.

Clem Hoately had mounted the platform where Bruno sat quietly fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan. “If you’ll step right this way, folks, I want to call your attention to one of the miracle men of all time-Herculo, the strongest man alive.”

Stan looked back to the rear of the tent. In the corner by the geek’s enclosure Sailor Martin had a couple of local youths engrossed in the strap on the barrelhead. He took a leather strap, folded it in the middle, then coiled it on the top of a nail keg. He placed his own finger in one of the two loops in the center and pulled the strap. His finger had picked the real loop in the strap. Then he bet one of the marks he couldn’t pick the real loop. The mark bet and won and the Sailor handed him a silver dollar.

Zeena drew the curtains of the little stage and came out at the side. She drew a handkerchief from her bosom and touched her temples with it. “Whew, ain’t it a scorcher today?” She followed Stan’s glance to the rear of the tent. “The Sailor better go easy. Hoately don’t like anybody to case the marks on the side this far south. Can’t blame him. Too likely to start a rumpus. I say, if you can’t make a living with your pitch you don’t belong in no decent Ten-in-One. I could pick up plenty of honest dollars if I wanted to give special private readings and remove evil influences and all that stuff. But that just leads to trouble.”

She stopped speaking and her hand tightened on Stan’s arm. “Stan, honey, you better take a walk over there and see what’s going on.”

Stan made no move to go. On the platform he was king; the marks in their anonymous mass were below him and his voice held them, but down on their level, jammed in among their milling, collective weight, he felt smothered.

Suddenly one of the youths drew back his foot and kicked over the nail keg on which Martin had wound the strap with the elusive loop. The Sailor’s voice was raised just a fraction above conversational level and he seemed to be speaking to the mark when he said, clearly and coolly, “Hey, rube!”

“Go on, Stan. Hurry. Don’t let ’em get started.”

As if he had a pistol pointed at his back, Stan marched across the tent to the spot where trouble was simmering. From the corner of his eye he saw Joe Plasky hop on his hands down the steps behind his own platform and swing his way toward the corner. He would not be alone, at least.

Plasky got there first. “Hello, gents. I’m one of the owners of the show. Everything all right?”

“Like hell it is,” blustered one of the marks. A young farmer, Stan judged. “This here tattooed son-of-a-bitch got five dollars of my money by faking. I seen this here strap swindle afore. I aims to get my money back.”

“If there’s any doubt in your mind about the fairness of any game of chance in the show I’m sure the Sailor here will return your original bet. We’re all here to have a good time, mister, and we don’t want any hard feelings.”

The other mark spoke up. He was a tall, raw-boned sodbuster with a mouth which chronically hung open, showing long yellow teeth. “I seen this here trick afore, too, mister. Cain’t fool me. Cain’t nobody pick out that loop, way this feller unwinds it. A feller showed me how it works one time. It’s a gahdamned swindle.”

Joe Plasky’s smile was broader than ever. He reached in the pocket of his shirt and drew out a roll of bills and took off a five. He held it up to the farmer. “Here’s the money out of my own pocket, son. If you can’t afford to lose you can’t afford to bet. I’m just returning your bet because we want everybody to have a good time and no hard feelings. Now you boys better mosey along.”

The youth shoved the five into the pocket of his pants and the two of them slouched out. Plasky turned to the Sailor. His smile was still there, but a hard, steady light shone in his eyes. “You dumb bastard! This is a tough town. The whole damn state is tough. And you haven’t any more sense than to start a Heyrube. For Christ’s sake watch your step! Now give me the five.”

Sailor Martin spat between his teeth into the dust. “I won that fin and I could of handled them two jakes. Who elected you Little Tin Jesus around here?”

Plasky put his fingers in his mouth and whistled a single blast. The tip around the last platform was on its way out and Hoately turned back. Joe waved his hand in an arc and Hoately signaled back and let the canvas drop to close the front entrance. Outside old Maguire began to grind, trying to gather a tip and hold them until the show was opened again.

Bruno dropped lightly from his platform and strode over. Stan felt Zeena beside him. Major Mosquito was running back on his infant’s legs, shrilling something incoherent.

Joe Plasky said evenly, “Sailor, you been leaving a trail of busted hearts and busted cherries all along the route. Now you’re going to hand me that fin and pack up your gear. You’re quitting the show. Hoately will back me up.”

Stan’s knees were weak. Zeena’s hand was on his arm, her fingers gripping it. Would he be expected to take on the Sailor? Joe was a cripple, Bruno a superman. Stan was broader and heavier than the Sailor but the thought of a fight sickened him. He never felt that fists were good enough. He would have carried a gun except that it was a lot of trouble and he was afraid of killing with it.

Martin eyed the group. Bruno stood quietly in the background. “I don’t fight no cripples, polack. And I don’t owe you no five.” The Sailor’s lips were pale, his eyes hot.