Erica Spindler - Fortune

From the shooting-gallery booth to his right, Chance became aware of arguing. He shifted his attention to the two carnies working it. One was taunting the other with a tale of a sexual exploit—with the girl the other wanted.

“You see this, asshole?” The uglier of the two boys held up a plastic sandwich bag he’d dug from his back pocket. “When Marlene gets a look at this, you won’t have another chance with her. So you better remember what she tasted like, ‘cause that’s the only taste you’re going to get.”

The second boy guffawed, “Yeah, right. Like one joint is really going to impress her.”

Several players stepped up to the booth, and the first boy tucked his bag behind the wooden ticket box. Chance watched the two as they helped the players, noting how, as each moved by the other in the booth, they delivered surreptitious blows, jabs and obscenities to the other.

Chance eyed the boys, an idea occurring to him. The two had been drinking; Chance was certain of it. Their tempers were short, their inhibitions dulled by drink. If the bag and joint disappeared, the first boy would blame the second and a fight was sure to break out.

Of course, if he got caught, they would beat the crap out of him and he would be tossed off the carnival lot. But if he didn’t…

This might be his only shot. He had to take it.

He watched. And waited. The opportunity presented itself—in the form of the fought-over Marlene. Personally, except for the pair of awesome hooters covered by a severely overextended tube top, Chance didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

While the two teenagers fell all over themselves, completely ignoring their crowded booth to compete for the girl’s attention, Chance reached over the partition and snatched the bag and joint. Heart thundering, he stuffed it into his right front pocket and moved as quickly as he could away from the booth.

But not too far away. He had to be around for the fireworks.

They weren’t long in coming. As soon as Marlene walked away, the two boys began bickering over who she liked best. Moments later, Chance heard a howl of rage and a shouted obscenity.

“Motherfuckin’ asshole! Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“My bag, you asswipe.” The outraged carny advanced on the other, fists clenched. “Give it back.”

“I don’t have your stupid little prize. I’m the one who doesn’t need it. Remember?” He smirked at his rival, then turned away. “Jerk.”

With a howl of fury, the first teenager leaped onto the back of the other. “Give it back or I’ll beat the shit out of you!”

“Get off me, you son of a bitch!” The kid threw his rider, turned and swung a fist. It connected, and the first boy stumbled backward, then righted himself and charged like a bull at the other boy. He caught him dead in the ribs and the two went careening backward into the booth’s shanty-style wall. It toppled. A woman screamed. A child began to cry. The two carnies rolled on the ground, tangled with each other in a death grip, shouting obscenities and delivering blows as best they could.

“That’s enough!”

The bellow came from Abner Marvel as he charged around the side of the booth directly across the midway, a baseball bat in hand. With him were two other men, as big and burly as Marvel, also wielding bats. How the old showman controlled his rowdy crew was obvious, and Chance took another step backward.

“Get up! Both of you.”

The boys immediately broke apart and scrambled to their feet. One’s nose was bloodied, the other’s eye had already started to purple and swell. From the way the teenagers cowered, Chance suspected that Abner Marvel wouldn’t hesitate to take a swing with that bat.

A trick he had probably learned from his father.

“He stole from me!” The first boy pointed accusingly at the second. “He deliberately stol—”

“I didn’t take nothin’! He’s just jealous ‘cause Marlene—”

“Shut up!” Abner Marvel bellowed, his face crimson with rage. “Both of you. Pack your things. I’ve taken all I’m going to from you two, you’re out of here!”

The two rowdies’ expressions went slack at the news, then in unison they began begging to keep their jobs. The old carny didn’t budge. “You’re out,” he said again, this time calmly. “You know the rules about fighting. Now get, before I decide I have to use this.” He slapped the wooden bat against his palm. “Stop by my trailer and collect your pay on your way off the lot.”

Chance didn’t even wait until the two ousted boys skulked off, to jump forward. “Mr. Marvel! Wait.”

Abner Marvel stopped and turned, his face fixed into a fierce scowl.

“I couldn’t help hearing what happened,” Chance said quickly, all too aware of Marvel’s beefy fist curled around the baseball bat. “It looks like you might need…I mean, it looks like a position has suddenly…opened up.”

“That it does.” Marvel narrowed his eyes. “You have a point?”

“Yeah.” Chance held the man’s intent gaze, never wavering or breaking eye contact. “I’m your man.”

Marvel reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar. He bit off one end, spit it out, then lit up. Through a cloud of noxious smoke, he studied Chance.

“In the carnival,” the showman said after several moments, “you’re either with-it or you’re a towner. A rube. A sucker. There’s a term in the trade, called the First of May. You have any idea what it means?”

Chance scrambled to come up with a reasonable guess. “The beginning of the carnival season?”

“It means rookie. Outsider. Rank beginner. It means you have to prove yourself before you’re accepted. You won’t be with-it until you do. Initiation can be…rough.”

Chance squared his shoulders. “I’ve had to prove myself before. I can handle it.”

“And I won’t be able to protect you,” Abner continued, puffing on the cigar. “These boys will eat you alive.”

“You can’t scare me off.” Chance took a step toward him. “I need this job. I need it bad. If you give it to me, I’ll work my ass off for you. I’ll do the job of both those losers. You’ll see.”

Marvel laughed, the sound deep and rusty. “I’ll be damned. You’re one cocky piece of work, aren’t you?” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “The job of two, you say? I’d like to see that, I really would.”

“Give me the job and you’ll see it.”

“If you get caught drinking, you’re out. If I catch you fighting or fucking with paying customers, you’re out. Leave the local jailbait alone. No second chances.”

“I won’t need one.”

“You have to bunk in a trailer with five other roustabouts. If you can’t hack it, it’s not my problem, you’re out.”

“I can hack it.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Chance McCord.”

“I’ll tell you this, Chance McCord, you’ve got guts.” Marvel gave him one final, measured glance, then a smile touched his mouth. “What’re you standing around for? There’s work to be done. You can start by cleaning up this mess.”

Skye sat cross-legged on her mother’s bed, her sketch pad laid over her knees. She moved her charcoal pencil across the page, enjoying the feel of the pencil in her hand and the soft, scratchy sound it made as the tip rubbed against the paper.

She smiled to herself, enjoying the quiet, this moment alone with her art. Their camper trailer didn’t afford many moments alone. Though luxurious compared to the ones the majority of the other troupers occupied, the trailer had exactly two interior doors—the one to the tiny lavatory and the one to this bedroom, located at the back of the camper. In the open area up front was the kitchenette, a booth-style dinette and a couch that folded out to make a bed.