William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

“But the purpose back of it all-why are we put here?”

“Way I look at it, we ain’t put. We growed.”

“But what started the whole stinking mess?”

“Didn’t have to start. It’s always been doing business. People ask me: how this world get made without God make it? I ask ’em right back: who make God? They say he don’t need making; he always been there. I say: well then, why you got to go bringing him in at all? Old world’s always been there, too. That’s good enough for me. They ask me: how about sin? Who put all the sin and wickedness and cussedness in the world? I say: who put the boll weevil? He growed. Well, mean people grow where the growing’s good for ’em-same as the boll weevil.”

Stan was trying to listen. When he spoke his voice was thick and flat. “It’s a hell of a world. A few at the top got all the dough. To get yours you got to pry ’em loose from some of it. And then they turn around and knock your teeth out for doing just what they did.”

The Negro sighed and offered Stan the tobacco, then made himself another cigarette. “You said it, brother. You said it. Only they ain’t going have it forever. Someday people going to get smart and mad, same time. You can’t get nothing in this world by yourself.”

Stan smoked, watching the gray thread sail toward the door and whip off into the night. “You sound like a labor agitator.”

This time the Negro laughed aloud. “God’s sake, man, labor don’t need agitation. You can’t agitate people when they’s treated right. Labor don’t need stirring up. It need squeezing together.”

“You think they’ve got sense enough to do it?”

“They got to do it. I know .”

“Oh. You know .”

The lad in denims was silent for a moment, thinking. “Looky here-you plant four grains of corn to a hill. How you know one going to come up? Well, the working people, black and white-their brains growing just like corn in the hill.”

The freight was slowing.

God, let me get out of here… this damn, slap-happy darkie, whistling in the lion’s den. And Grindle… every second, moving closer to the fort…

“Hey, watch yourself, son. She’s still traveling.”

The train lost speed quickly. It was stopping. Stan jumped to the ground and the Negro followed, looking left and right. “This ain’t good. Got no business stopping here. Oh-oh-it’s a frisk.”

At either end of the train, lights appeared, brakemen walking the tops carrying lanterns; flashlights of railroad bulls playing along the body rods and into open boxcars.

The young hobo said, “Something funny-this division ain’t never been hostile before. And they frisking from both ends at once…”

On the other side of the freight a train whistled in, hissing, glowing, the red blaze of the engine shining under the boxcar and throwing the hoboes’ shadows across the cinders ahead of them.

“Hey, son, let’s try and jump that passenger job. You a fast rambler?”

The Rev. Carlisle shook his head. The furies were drawing close, Anderson’s web was tangling him. This was the end of it. Dully he clambered back into the boxcar and sank down into a corner, burying his face in his bent elbow, while with hoarse voices and a stamp of feet the furies moved in…

“Hey, bo-” The whisper through the door barely penetrated. “Come on-let’s nail that rattler. We make better time too.”

Silence.

“So long, boy. Take it easy.”

Doom had stepped onto the roof; then a light stabbed into the car, searching the corners. Oh, Jesus, this is it-this is it.

“Come on, you bastard, unload. And get your hands up.”

He stood, blinking in the glare of the flashlight, and raised his arms.

“Come on, hit the grit!”

Stan stumbled to the door and sat down, sliding his feet into darkness. A big hand gripped his arm and jerked him out.

From the top of the car the head-end shack peered over, holding his brake club under one arm. “You got him?”

A voice behind the flashlight said, “I got one. But he ain’t no coon. Way we got the tip, the guy was a coon.”

The brakeman above them signaled with his lantern and from the dark came the chug of a gasoline-driven handcar. It sped up and Stan could see that it was crowded with men-dark clothes-it was no track gang. When it stopped the men piled off and hurried across the rails.

“Where is he? On the freight? Who’s shaking down the rattler?”

“We got boys frisking the rattler, don’t worry.”

“But we got it from Anderson…”

This is it. This is it. This is it.

“… that the guy was colored.” One of the newcomers came closer and brought out a flashlight of his own. “What’s that in your pocket, bud?”

Stanton Carlisle tried to speak but his mouth was gritty.

“Keep your hands up. Wait a minute. This isn’t a weapon. It’s a Bible.”

His lungs loosened; he could draw half a breath. “Brother, you hold in your hand the most powerful weapon in the world-”

“Drop it!” Big Hand shouted. “Maybe it’s a pineapple made to look like a Bible.”

The other voice was cool. “It’s just a Bible.” He turned to the white hobo. “We’re looking for a colored lad. We know he boarded this train. If you can give us information which might lead to his arrest, you would be serving the forces of justice. And there might be something in it for you.”

Justice. Something in it could mean folding money. Justice. A buck-ten cans of alky… justice. White-stubble justice… a buck-twenty shots… oh, frig them with their razorstrops, their brake clubs …

He opened his eyes wide, staring straight ahead in the light-beam. “Brother, I met a colored brother-in-God when I was waiting to nail this job. I tried to bring him to Jesus, but he wouldn’t listen to the Word. I gave him my last tract-”

“Come on, parson, where did he go? Was he riding here in the car with you?”

“Brother, this colored brother-in-God nailed her somewhere up at the head-end. I was hoping we could ride together so I could tell him about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who died for our sins. I’ve rode from coast-to-coast a dozen times, bringing men to Christ. I’ve brought only a couple thousand so far…”

“Okay, parson, give Jesus a rest. We’re looking for a god-damned nigger Red. You saw him grab her up front? Come on, guys, let’s spread out. He’s here someplace…”

The man with big hands stayed with Stanton while the others swarmed over the freight, swung between the cars and moved off into the darkness. The Rev. Carlisle had slipped into a low mutter which the yard dick made out to be a sermon, addressed either to an invisible congregation or to the air. The goddamned Holy Joe had thrown them off; now the coon had a chance of getting clear.

At last the freight whistled, couplings started and clanked, and it groaned off. Beyond it the passenger train, sleek and dark, waited while flashlights sprayed into the blinds, the side boxes of the diner, and along the tops.

Then it too began to move. As the club car slid past, Stan glimpsed through long windows a waiter in a white coat. He was uncapping a bottle while an arm in a tweed coat held a glass of ice.

A drink. Good Christ, a drink. Could I put the bite on this bull? Better not try it, no time to build it.

The railroad detective spat between his teeth. “Look here, parson, I’m going to give you a break. I ought to send you over. But you’d probably have the whole damn jail yelling hymns. Come on, crumb, take the breeze.”

The big hands turned Stan around and pushed; he stumbled over tracks and up an embankment. In the distance the light of a farmhouse glowed. A drink. Oh, Jesus-