William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

They held the pose like figures in a tableau. Only the firelight moved, jumping and flickering on the weeds and on the two faces, the pudgy one dark and tormented, the gaunt face of the blond hobo a blank.

There was a whining scuffle from the bank overhead and both men turned. An emaciated dog slid down and tremblingly approached the warmth, tail flattened between his haunches, eyes rolling.

Stan chirped between his teeth. “Come here, boy. Here. Over here by me.”

The dog bounded toward him, yelping with delight at the sound of a friendly voice. He had almost reached Stan when the squat hobo drew back his foot. The kick lifted the animal, squirming and squealing, into the air; it fell, legs spraddled, in the middle of the fire, screamed, and shot away into the dark, trailing sparks from singed fur.

Stan swept the coffee in a curve; it glistened in the firelight, a muddy arc, and caught the fat man in the eyes. He stumbled back, wiping his sleeve across them. Then he lowered his head, resting his jowl on his left shoulder and stepping in with a rocking motion, left fist forward, right hand half open, ready to defend his face. In a soft, cultured voice he said, “Get your hands up, brother. You are in for a very unpleasant three minutes. I’ll play with you that long and then send you off to dreamland.”

The Rev. Carlisle had doubled in the middle, as if taken by a violent stomach cramp. He moaned, bending over, and the fat man dropped his guard an inch. It was low enough.

When Stan sprang he carried a thick faggot from the fire and with one lunge caught the hobo with its burning point just below the breast bone. The man went down limply and heavily, like a dummy stuffed with sand.

Stan watched him gape, fighting for breath. Then he smashed the torch into the open mouth, feeling the teeth crush under it.

The alcohol was draining out of his mind. He was alone and cold, under an immensity of sky-naked as a slug, as a tadpole. And the shadow of the crushing foot seemed to move closer. Stan began to run.

Far away, up on the drag, he heard the hoot of a whistle and he ran faster, staggering, a stitch in his side. Oh, Jesus-the Tarot. I left it by the fire. One more signpost pointing to the Rev. Carlisle.

A freight was slowing. He ran, his breath scorching, looking ahead, through the dark, for obstructions on the line. An iron step came whipping by him and he reached for it, but it tore from his fingers. The job was picking up speed.

A wide-open boxcar door slid up to him and he leaped.

Then, with the scalding panic rushing over him, he knew that he had missed and was swinging under.

A hand from the car gripped his shoulder and held him, half inside the car and half out, while under his feet the earth flew past.

The freight high-balled along.

One foot on earth and one on water, an angel pours eternity from cup to cup .

IN THE parking lot the Maryland sun beat down, flashing from rows of windshields, from chromium handles and the smooth curves of enameled mudguards.

Cincinnati Burns eased the battered convertible into line while Molly, standing out on the gravel, shouted, “Cut her left, honey. More left.”

He drew out the ignition key and it was suddenly snatched from his hand and hurled out between the cars. Cincy said, “You little devil! You’re mighty sassy. Ain’t you? Ain’t you?” He boosted the child high in the air while it screamed with joy.

Molly came running up. “Let me hold him, Cincy, while you get the key.” He passed the baby to her and it grabbed a damp handkerchief from the gambler’s coat pocket and waved it triumphantly.

“Come on, precious. Let’s let Daddy get the key. Hey, quit kicking me in the tummy.”

The big man set the boy on his shoulder, handing Molly his hat for safekeeping, and they headed for the grandstand. The gambler shifted the baby and looked at the stop watch on his wrist. “Plenty of time, kitten. The third race is our spot.”

They stopped to buy paper cups of raspberry sherbet and Cincinnati whispered suddenly, “You hold the bambino, Molly. There’s Dewey from St. Louis.”

Treading softly, he approached from the rear and squatted down behind a glum, lantern-jawed man in a seersucker suit. Cincy took a pack of matches and holding his thick fingers, knuckles covered with red hair, as delicately as if he were threading a needle, he stuck a match between Dewey’s shoe sole and the upper. Lighting the match, he sneaked back a few steps and then strolled over to where his wife and son were watching from behind the refreshment stand.

When the match burned down the long-faced horse player shot into the air as if hoisted by a rope and began smacking at his foot.

Molly, Cincy, and young Dennis, peeking around the corner of the stand, began to shout in unison. Molly dropped her cup of sherbet, and Dennis Burns, seeing it fall, threw his after it gleefully.

“Hey, what goes on?” Cincy rattled change in his pocket and said, “You go on. I’ll catch up to ye’s.”

When he joined them he held four cups of sherbet. “Here, kids-one to suck on and one to drop. Dewey is sure a sucker for the hotfoot. This must be a thousand times somebody gives him the hotfoot. It’s a dozen times, at least, that I give him the hotfoot myself. Let’s get up in the stand, kitten. I’ll get you organized and then I’ve got to get the roll down on that hay-burner in the third; he shouldn’t drop dead, kennahurra . You wouldn’t know that, that’s Gaelic. If he breaks a leg we’re going to have to talk fast back at that fleabag. What the hell, it’s time we was pulling out of that trap anyhow. Every time I wake up in the morning and get a glim full of that wallpaper I feel like I ought to slip you five bucks.”

spins past Angel, Eagle, Lion, and Bull .

STAN lay on the splintery boards, feeling the vibration against his elbows, smelling the acrid odor of machine oil rising from the planks. The freight thundered along, gaining speed.

The hands drew him further in and then slid under his armpits and helped him to sit up. “You all right, son? You sure come near swinging yourself into Kingdom Come.” The voice was soft and friendly.

Now they were passing the outskirts of a town, lonely street lamps sending bars of light winking through the door. The man who had dragged him in was a Negro, dressed in denim overalls and a denim work coat. Above the bib of the overalls a white shirt was visible in the shadows. His smile was the only part of his face Stan could see.

Getting to his feet he braced himself against the sway of the car under him and worked his fingers and arms, easing the strain out of them. “Thanks, pal. It was too dark for me to put on any speed myself-couldn’t see what was ahead of me on the drag.”

“It’s tough, dark night like this. You can’t see the grab-irons. You can’t hardly see nothing . How about a smoke?”

Stan felt a bag of tobacco pressed into his hand. He twisted himself a cigarette and they shared the match. The Negro was a young fellow, slim, with smooth, handsome features and close-cropped hair.

Stan drew in smoke and let it dribble from his nose. Then he began to shake, for the steady pound of the wheels under him brought back the stab of that hopeless, desperate fear, “This is it,” and he trembled harder.