Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

She said, "I gotta take down the top row. Just drop'm into this bucket here, okay?"

"How did you put them up there?"

"I had a young fella working for me, but he left last night. They do that, you know. Probably after a woman. Now I gotta find a ladder."

Elvis pulled down the top row of targets, putting them into the bucket like she asked. Each cat was eight inches tall, and wedged into a little groove built into the shelves. Fluffy hair stuck out around the cats so they looked bigger than they were. Elvis figured that with all the hair and the tight bases, it would be almost impossible to knock off a cat unless you hit it dead center.

"That's a big help, young mister. You want a prize or a dollar?"

"I guess the dollar, but I'll take that guy's job instead. I'm looking for work."

She frowned at him.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

She frowned harder.

"I'd say more like thirteen or fourteen, you ask me. You a runaway?"

"I'm trying to find my father."

She pulled a dollar from her pocket and pushed it toward him. She added a second dollar.

"Take this and go back to your mama. She's gonna be worried sick. You're too young to be off by yourself like this. You could be murdered."

Elvis's mother had been leaving him alone since he was a baby, but he didn't tell her that. His mother vanished three or four times every year for as long as he could remember. He woke on those mornings to find her gone - no word, no note, just gone. He never knew when or if she would return, and when she did, she never told him (or his grandfather or his aunt) where she had been or what she had done. She was like that. But every time she left, he - secretly in his secret heart - prayed that she was going to find his father, and this time -this time- would bring him home. Which is why he loved her still; for the hope that one day she would bring his father home.

Elvis glanced at the cats filling the bucket.

"How are you going to get them back on the shelf?"

"I'll get a ladder."

"Tell me where it is and I'll get it for you."

She looked up at the shelf that was beyond her reach, and a little smile played at her lips.

"What's your name?"

"Jimmie."

The woman abruptly put out her hand, and Elvis knew he was in. She had one of the strongest grips he had ever felt.

"You can stay long enough to help me fix up these cats and put them back, but after that you gotta go home."

An hour later she offered him the job, and that night she let him sleep on the floor in her tiny Airstream trailer.

Elvis Cole ran for coffee when Tina needed a refill, wiped each of the one hundred eighteen softballs (he counted) with an oiled cloth, and touched up the shelves where the nightly onslaught chipped, splintered, and bruised the paint; he retrieved thrown balls, replaced targets that had been knocked down, helped work the counter, and in between he tried to find out more about Eddie Pulaski.

Three days later, the midway was struck, packed, and trucked seventy-four miles where they set up in a new town. The following day, Elvis was eating lunch when several roughnecks took seats around him, their trays laden with food. They were young guys, with weathered skin and callused, banged-up hands.

A man with an anchor tattooed on his left forearm lit a Marlboro, then abruptly looked at Elvis.

"Seen you around. Who you with?"

"Tina Sanchez."

The man blew a cloud of Marlboro and sucked food from his teeth.

"Nice lady, that Tina. She's been with this midway a long time."

The man beside Elvis belched. He was the oldest.

"Hell, she's been here longer than me. They used to be with the Big Top, y'know, that whole family. You ever seen her bend a nail? She can bend a twelve-penny with her thumb, just push it right over, a little woman like that. They were tumblers."

Elvis said, "Do you guys know when the Human Fireball is coming back?"

"He's the big ticket, kid; the boss ain't gonna let that cannon sit. We're pullin' out the cannon for tonight's show."

Elvis's heart pounded so hard he thought he would jump out of the chair. He made excuses all afternoon to leave Tina's booth, each time running to watch the roustabouts position the cannon and string a tall skinny net to catch Eddie Pulaski at the end of his flight.

By eight-thirty that night, the business at Tina's booth was furious. A crowd of high-school baseball players crowded the counter, firing balls in a competition to see who could peg the most cats. Five minutes before nine, an announcer's voice cut through the din of the crowd; the Human Fireball was only moments away from exploding into the air, Come one, come all, SEE if he survives!!!

Tina rolled her eyes, and waved him away.

"Oh, go on, go! You wanna see him so bad you gonna pee yourself."

Elvis sprinted down the midway and pushed through the crowd. More than a thousand people had already gathered and the show had begun. The Human Fireball stood atop the upraised cannon with a microphone in his hand.

Eddie Pulaski looked nine feet tall in a white leather jumpsuit festooned with red and blue stars. He had shadowed eyes, flowing black hair combed back over his skull, and shoulders at least three feet wide! He gestured broadly to the crowd with wide sweeps of his arm, explaining that the cannon was charged with high explosives, enough to bring down a small skyscraper, enough to hurl him high over the midway into the far net.

The crowd oo-ed and ah-ed.

And if that wasn't enough, Eddie exclaimed, he would be doused with gasoline and burst into flame, hurling through the sky like a blazing fireball!

The crowd oo-ed and ah-ed again, but then Eddie raised his hands for silence. Only questions remained:

Would he land safely in the net, or would a stray breeze blow him off course?

Would the explosive charge be too much or too little?

Would he fly fast enough to snuff the blazing flames or would he burn alive in the far net?

There was only one way to find out!!!

Elvis pushed forward to get closer, shoving past men who cursed and boys who hit him.

Eddie tossed the microphone to an assistant, another assistant splashed him with a bucket of liquid, and Eddie hoisted himself into the cannon without another word.

The crowd fell silent.

Elvis Cole's heart pounded.

The assistant counted down through the microphone: ten!… nine!… eight! …

The crowd counted with him, their voices a thundering chant.

The second assistant lit a ring of flames around the mouth of the cannon.

… three!… two! … one!…

The Human Fireball thundered from the cannon in a whoosh of white smoke. He burst into flames as he passed through the ring of fire and arced into the night. Long flames trailed behind him, blowing out as he reached the peak of his flight, and then he landed safely in the net. Eddie Pulaski bounced to his feet as the crowd cheered. He raised his hands to the applause as if he were the King of the Universe, asked the crowd to tell their friends -Last show tomorrow night, friends!- then he gripped the edge of the net, swung down, and was gone.

His father was gone.

Elvis shouldered between milling bodies and slipped between the canvas banners into the darkness behind the midway, desperate to catch the man. His heart thundered and his ears hummed. He ran as hard as he could to catch up, and rounded a truck just as Eddie Pulaski climbed into a long blue trailer. The trailer door shut. Elvis told himself to keep moving, to pound on that door, to show Eddie Pulaski the picture of his mother, you remember her don't you, fourteen years ago? He had come so far and wanted it so much, but his feet did not move. Elvis ached deep in his center, an ache so sharp and terrible that he knew he could not stand to ache more.