William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

“You sing, too?” Stan asked dryly.

“Oh, sure. I only party to fill in. I sing with a band sometimes. I’m studying the voice.” She threw back her head and vocalized five notes. “Ah… ah… AH… ah… ah.”

The Great Stanton stopped with his shirt half off, staring. Then he seized the girl and threw her on the bed.

“Hey, look out, honey, not so fast! Hey, for Christ’s sake, be careful!”

He twisted his hand in her hair. The girl’s white, waxy face stared up at him, fearful and stretched tight. “Take it easy, honey. Don’t. Listen, Ed McLaren, the house dick, is a pal of mine. Now go easy- Ed’ll beat the hell out of any guy that did that.”

The radio kept on. “… bringing you the music of Phil Requete and his Swingstars direct from the Zodiac Room of the Hotel Teneriffe. And now our charming vocalist, Jessyca Fortune, steps up to the mike with an old-fashioned look in her eye, as she sings-and swings-that lovely old number of the ever popular Bobbie Burns, ‘Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come to You, My Lad.’ ”

Ice in the river, piled against the piers of boat clubs, a dark channel in the middle. And always the click of the rail joints underneath. North south east west-cold spring heat fall-love lust tire leave-wed fight leave hate-sleep wake eat sleep-child boy man corpse-touch kiss tongue breast-strip grip press jet-wash dress pay leave-north south east west…

Stan felt the prickle crawl up over his scalp again. The old house was waiting for him and the fat ones with pince-nez and false teeth; this woman doc probably was one of them, for all the music of voice and cool, slow speech. What could she do for him? What could anybody do for him? For anybody? They were all trapped, all running down the alley toward the light.

The nameplate said, “Dr. Lilith Ritter, Consulting Psychologist. Walk In.”

The waiting room was small, decorated in pale gray and rose. Beyond the casement window snow was falling softly in huge flakes. On the window sill was a cactus in a rose-colored dish, a cactus with long white hair like an old man. The sight of it ran along Stan’s nerves like a thousand ants. He put down his coat and hat and then quickly looked behind a picture of sea shells drawn in pastel. No dictaphone. What was he afraid of? But that would have been a beautiful place to plant a bug if you wanted to work the waiting room gab angle when the doc’s secretary came in.

Did she have a secretary? If he could make the dame he might get a line on this woman doc or whatever she was, find out how much overboard she was on occult stuff. He might swap developmental lessons for whatever she gave her patients-some kind of advice. Or did she interpret dreams or something? He lit a cigarette and it burned his finger as he knocked the ashes off. In reaching down to pick it up he knocked down an ashtray. He got on his hands and knees to pick up the butts and that was where he was when the cool voice said, “Come in.”

Stan looked up. This dame wasn’t fat, she wasn’t tall, she wasn’t old. Her pale hair was straight and she wore it drawn into a smooth roll on the nape of her neck. It glinted like green gold. A slight woman, no age except young, with enormous gray eyes that slanted a little.

Stan picked up the ashtray and put it on the edge of a table. It fell off again but he didn’t notice. He was staring at the woman who stood holding the door open into another room. He weaved to his feet, lurching as he came near her. Then he caught a whiff of perfume. The gray eyes seemed as big as saucers, like the eyes of a kitten when you hold its nose touching yours. He looked at the small mouth, the full lower lip, carefully tinted but not painted. She said nothing. As he started to push past her he seemed to fall; he found his arm around her and held on knowing that he was a fool, knowing something terrible would strike him dead, knowing he wanted to cry, to empty his bladder, to scream, to go to sleep, wondering as he tightened his arms around her…

Stan lay sprawling on the floor. She had twisted his shoulders, turning him until his back was toward her, and then planted one neat foot at the back of his knee. Now she knelt beside him on the carpet, gripping his right hand in both of hers, forcing it in toward the wrist and keeping him flat by the threatened pain of the taut tendons. Her expression had not changed.

She said, “The Rev. Stanton Carlisle, I believe. Pastor of the Church of the Heavenly Message, lecturer on Tarot symbolism and yogic breathing, a producer of ghosts with cheesecloth-or maybe you use a little magic lantern. Now if I let you up will you promise to be co-operative?”

Stan had thrown one arm over his eyes and he felt the tears slipping down his face into his ears. He managed to say, “Promise.”

The deft hands released his and he sat up, hiding his face with his palms, thinking of a pillow that had been slept on and perfumed, with shame washing back and forth over him, the light too strong for his eyes, and the tears that wouldn’t stop running. Something in his throat seemed to be strangling him from inside.

“Here-drink this.”

“What-what is it?”

“Just a little brandy.”

“Never drink it.”

“I’m telling you to drink it. Quickly.”

He felt blindly for the glass, held his breath and drank, coughing as it burned his throat.

“Now get up and sit over here in this chair. Open your eyes and look at me.”

Dr. Lilith Ritter was regarding him from across a wide mahogany desk. She went on, “I thought I’d be hearing from you, Carlisle. You were never cut out to run a spook racket solo.”

shines down upon a naked girl who, between land and sea, pours mysterious waters from her urns .

“LIE BACK on the couch.”

“I don’t know what to talk about.”

“You say that every time. What are you thinking about?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“Wishing you sat where I could see you. I want to look at you.”

“When you lie down on the couch, just before you lean back, you run your hands over your hair. Why do you do that?”

“That’s my get-set.”

“Explain.”

“Every vaudeville actor has some business: something he does in the wings just before he goes on.”

“Why do you do that?”

“I’ve always done it. I used to have a cowlick when I was a kid and my mother would always be telling me to slick it down.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Think about it. Did you ever know anybody who did that-anybody else in vaudeville?”

“No. Let’s talk about something else.”

“What are you thinking about now?”

“Pianos.”

“Go on.”

“Pianos. People playing pianos. For other people to sing. My mother singing. When she sang my old man would go in the dining room and whisper all the time to one of his pals. The rest would be in the living room listening to my mother.”

“She played the piano herself?”

“No. Mark played. Mark Humphries. He’d sit down and look up at her as if he was seeing right through her clothes. He’d run his hands once over his hair-”

“Yes?”

“But it’s crazy! Why would I want to swipe a piece of business from that guy? After she’d run off with him I used to lie awake nights thinking up ways to kill him.”

“I think you admired him.”

“It was the dames that admired him. He was a great big guy with a rumbling voice. The dames were crazy over him.”

“Did this Humphries drink?”