Robert Crais - The Forgotten Man

Elvis stared at the closed door of the trailer, then turned and walked away.

Now that Elvis knew where Pulaski lived, he soaked up bits of the man's life: the white Ford pickup parked near the trailer; a small charcoal grill standing cold outside the trailer door; two empty beer cans standing upright in the grass. Elvis slipped past the truck to peek inside, seeing the ashtray overflowing with butts, a roll of duct tape on the bench seat, and a shrunken head dangling from the mirror. Elvis drank the details as if each was a missing piece to the puzzle of his life. He took out his mother's picture and held it up, showing her face to the truck and trailer and grill.

"This is where he lives. This is him."

Elvis paced the midway most of the night, anxious and sick. He returned to Eddie's trailer again and again, circling it like a dog afraid to go home. When he finally tried to sleep, he couldn't, and he let himself out of Tina's mobile home while she slept.

The midway was quiet that morning except for the kitchen crew and the carny who walked the three-eyed cow. Elvis returned to Pulaski's mobile home, but it was still quiet. He slipped between the tents and went to the cannon. It had been lowered and pushed beneath the banners. Elvis climbed onto the flatbed and ran his hand along the barrel. He peered into the muzzle.

"Get the hell down from there!"

The Human Fireball was glaring up at him, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a cigarette dangling from his lip. He was wearing a thin cloth robe over shorts, an undershirt, and unlaced shoes.

"C'mon, kid, get down or I'll have Security on your ass."

Elvis jumped to the ground.

Eddie Pulaski was shorter than he seemed last night. His hair was thin and pockmarks cut his jaw.

"I was just looking. I work for Tina Sanchez. Wiping the balls, you know? And stacking the targets."

The Fireball squinted, then nodded.

"I guess I seen you."

Elvis shivered, but not with the morning cold. He was certain that Eddie Pulaski recognized him, maybe not clearly, and maybe not well, but with some deep part of himself that remembered one of his own.

The Fireball sucked off his cigarette, then hacked up phlegm and swallowed it.

"Either way, you bein' new, lemme set you straight about somethin'. Don't mess with my stuff. Everyone on the 'way knows not to mess with my stuff. My ass depends on this gear, so I can't have anyone fuckin' around with it."

"I'm sorry. I didn't touch anything."

"Forget it, just so you mind. You see the show last night?"

"You were amazing."

The Fireball placed his coffee on the flatbed, then hoisted himself up. He didn't look happy.

"I just fixed the fucker, but I didn't like the way it sounded last night, made this funny poppin' noise when it let go. You don't wanna hear shit pop when you do what I do for a livin'. C'mon up, you want. I'm gonna open her."

Elvis pushed himself onto the flatbed as if he were weightless. He felt electric with energy as he followed after Pulaski. He wanted to hear every word the man spoke; he wanted to drink in everything he was willing to teach, just as a son learns from his father.

Pulaski twisted a row of catches along the cannon's housing and let down its side. Elvis was surprised by what he saw: The cannon barrel didn't fill the housing; a heavy steel spring with coils as thick as his wrists ran on steel rails where the barrel should be. Chains stretched along the springs down into gears and pulleys and what looked like heavy electric motors.

Elvis said, "I thought it was a cannon."

Eddie took a deep drag on his cigarette, flicked the butt away, then went to work tinkering in the motor.

"Use your fuckin' head. A man can't shoot himself out a real cannon; the g-force would bust your spine, and the barrel pressure would scramble your brain. It's a catapult. The smoke and other stuff is shit for the marks."

Elvis felt disappointed, but somehow thrilled, too, and the mix left him confused. He didn't like it that Eddie Pulaski was a liar, but Eddie was also sharing secrets exactly the way a father would share with his son. Elvis suddenly pulled out the photograph of his mother, and held it up.

"You're my father."

The Fireball twisted around. His eyes went to the picture.

"This is my mother."

"Did you say what I think you did?"

"My father was a human cannonball. My name used to be Jimmie, but she changed it to Elvis so it would be like your name, just like your name but not, you see how they both begin with an E? You see how they have five letters?"

The Fireball stepped back from the cannon and shook his head once.

The words spilled out. They had been building for fourteen years.

Elvis said, "I look just like you, don't I? She didn't name me Eddie because she still keeps the secret. She never told anyone about you, and she never will. Look at the picture. You see my mom?"

Pulaski's eyes softened in a way more frightening than if they had blazed with hatred.

"I've been looking for you all of my life. I had to find you. I found you."

Pulaski stared across the midway, then glanced back. Elvis was desperate to hear how Pulaski and his mother met and how much they meant to each other and that Pulaski missed her and had always wanted a son, but Pulaski didn't say those things. His voice was gentle.

"Kid, listen, I never met your mother. Look at me. We don't look anything alike. I'm not the guy you've been looking for. I'm not your father."

The Fireball's face filled with pity, which hurt more than a slap.

"My father is a human cannonball."

Pulaski shook his head.

"I worked shrimp boats out of Corpus Christi fifteen years ago. I've only done this eight years."

"You're him."

"I'm not."

Elvis felt as if he was floating in soft gray fuzz. He looked at the cannon that wasn't a cannon. He looked at Pulaski, with his thin upper body and thick legs, his thin wiry hair and stubby fingers. They looked nothing alike. Nothing.

"You're a fake. Everything about you is fake."

Elvis felt the tears run down his face. He wanted to run, but his feet didn't move. He shouted as loudly as he could, shouted because he wanted everyone on the midway to hear.

"FAKE! THAT'S NOT A CANNON! IT'S A SPRING!"

Pulaski didn't grow angry. He only looked sad.

"C'mon, kid."

"HE'S A LIAR! NOTHING HERE IS REAL!"

Pulaski hugged him close, wrapping his arms around him tight, but never once raising his voice.

"Stop it, boy. I'm not your old man. I'm nobody's old man."

"YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A LIE!"

Pulaski held tight, and Elvis wanted to be held; he wanted to hold on forever, but then it all seemed wrong and he pushed Pulaski away, and ran without thinking. He jumped from the flatbed and ran as hard as he could, seeing nothing through the diamonds in his eyes, just colored light that shimmered and moved like the made-up fantasy of a rainbow; he ran past Tina Sanchez's trailer and the still-sleeping skeletons of the thrill rides; he ran until he fell to the ground, hating everything and everyone in the world, and himself most of all.

Father Knows Best

Wilson followed Jacob Lenz to a small Airstream set up behind the midway. It was polished and bright, speaking well of the owner. The door was propped open for the air.

Lenz rapped at the door, then went inside. Wilson stepped up behind him, blocking the door with his body so the boy couldn't get out.

Lenz said, "Tina? A man is here for the boy."

The kid was sitting on a couch with a short, dark woman who had probably been good-looking in her day. The kid recognized Wilson right away, and didn't seem surprised.

"Hi, Mr. Wilson."

"Hiya, bud. You're a lot taller now."