Madball

CHAPTER ONE

MACK IRBY STOOD leaning on a heavy cane listening to the grind of the talker for the unborn show. The carnival crowd streaming down the midway flowed around him. There was ironical amusement on his lean face as he listened. Mystery of Sex read the banner over the front.

"Here it is, boys, the show they been talking about, the show you came out here to see, this is it, the sex mystery exposed, here's where you see it, male and female, male and female naked and unadorned, here's where you see everything, I mean everything, right before your very eyes, the naked truth, all on the inside and all for one thin dime, one dime ten cents the whole show, the mystery of sex, doctors and nurses admitted free, scientific and you see it all for one dime, now going on
...
"

Burt had done all right by himself, Mack Irby thought, in finding a new talker. The guy was okay. There were a few phrases that Mack would have used himself if he'd have thought of them. Not that it mattered now, not that he'd ever have to grind again for an unborn show or any other kind of show.

Mack Irby limped only a little as he made his way to the front of the ticket box. The talker reached to tear a ticket off the roll and then stopped as he saw Irby grinning at him. "How are the pickle
d
punks?" Irby asked him.

He got an answering if slightly puzzled grin. "You with it?" the talker asked.

The talker was a little guy, sharp eyed, sharp nosed, but with a good voice, a voice that proved he'd done spieling back before p.a. systems mechanized it
.
Irby said, "Just got back. How go things?"

"Pretty fair. Say-" The talker looked down and apparently noticed the cane. "You the guy who di
d the grinding here before? Uh ...
Kirby?"

"Irby. Mack Irby. Yeah."

"Glad to know you, Mack. I'm Barney King." He reached down over the ledge to shake hands. "Stick around. Burt'll be closing up pretty soon and we can have a drink."

Irby pulled a flat pint out of his hip pocket and handed it up. "Have the drink now, I got a dame to look up."

Barney King tilted the bottle and drank, his Adam's apple bobbing like a cork. "Good stuff," he said, glancing at the label before he passed it back. "Thanks."

"How's Burt? Cranky as ever?"

"We get along. Go on in and say hi to him."

Irby started in, then hesitated. "Any marks in there?"

"A few. Half a dozen, maybe."

He didn't want to see Burt anyway, not tonight. He'd never really liked Burt. All right to work for and a damn good pitchman, but pretty dull company.

He took out cigarettes, offered the talker one.

"Then I might queer his pitch on the sex books. But you can tell Burt I'm back and I'll look him up tomorrow. I'll be around a few days anyhow."

"Not going to ride out the season? Listen, you can tie up, easy. The model show needs a talker; Johnny Dane took off early and headed south. Slim's been doing his own talking but he'd be damn glad to get you."

"Nah, only two weeks left. I'd just as soon loaf it out, have myself some fun after that goddam hospital. And I got my stake."

"Burt said you got some moolah out of the accident."

"Two grand
-
not bad for seven weeks. And with what I had stashed up to then I'm okay and nuts to taking a job for just two weeks. I was lucky."

"The guy in the car with you was killed, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, Charlie Flack. You here the seven weeks?"

"Six of 'em," Barney King said. "First guy Burt tried turned out to be a lush. Say, I better grind a while or Burt'll be out here to see what happened to me."

"Okay, Barney. So long."

"Here it is, boys, hurry, hurry, hurry, the show you came out to see, the mystery of sex, the naked truth, male and female unadorned and only one thin dime
...
" Mack Irby walked on down the midway and despite the limp and the cane he walked on air. He told himself, This is it, boy, this is the show you been waiting for. Continuous and stay as long as you like and all for forty-two thousand bucks. Safely waiting to be picked up.

And almost three thousand more in honest money, the nine hundred and fifty he'd stashed in postal savings during the season up to the time of the accident, and the two thousand he'd got from the insurance company.

It needed music, that walk down the bright midway, "Hail the Conquering Hero Comes." The merry-go-round was playing "Dardanella" instead, but that didn't matter really. The music Mack Irby heard wasn't the merry-go-round's organ nor the three-piece combo of the jig show; it was the overall sound of the carnival on a busy night, voices and laughter and the strident selling spieling grinding over p.a. systems and the crack of rifles in the shooting gallery and singing yelling shuffling, the thud of baseballs and the soft ratchets of fortune wheels and the bassdrum call to bally, try your luck, mister, pitch till you win, the big show just about to start, a few seats left, three balls for a dime, see the strangest people on earth, win a kewpie doll for the little woman, get 'em while they're hot, pick your lucky number, and inside the little lady will show you, hurry, hurry, win an Armour ham, see the alligator boy, this is the show you came to see, naked and unadorned, every number wins a prize, the show's about to start, step right up, try your luck
...

Mack Irby walking down the midway, a rich man now.

God, what a break that accident had been. It had meant the whole forty-two thousand was his, instead of only a third of it. Charlie Flack had been tough about that two-thirds split
-
but with some justification, Irby had to admit. It was Charlie who knew the ropes on robbing banks, Charlie who'd cased the job, who'd done the brainwork and given the orders. He, Irby, had been green at anything bigger than petty larceny. Yes, Charlie had really earned that two-thirds split, if he'd lived to take it.

Charlie had been a careful guy. Mack Irby remembered how carefully Charlie had felt him out and then tested him before he'd chosen him as a partner for a job, how careful Charlie had been in planning every little detail in advance, even to how they'd stash the loot and not touch it till the end of the season. Charlie had even been a careful driver; that accident the next night after the robbery hadn't been Charlie's fault at all. He'd talked Charlie into driving over to a roadhouse he knew near Glenrock for a little private celebration but they were on their way there when it happened and neither of them had even had a drink as yet. The other driver had been drunk and speeding and had been on the wrong side of the road. And a cop car had seen it happen; that's why there hadn't been any doubt about responsibility and why the insurance company that carried liability for the other guy had settled like a shot.

Of course a broken leg and seven weeks in the hospital hadn't been fun, but what wonderful news it had been when they'd told him Charlie Flack was dead. Only he and Charlie had known where the bank loot was hidden and now only he knew, and it was all his, three-thirds of that beautiful hunk of moolah.

And maybe he'd inherit Charlie's girl, too. He'd know about that pretty soon now.

Unless someone had snagged off Maybelle already
...
He saw he was about to pass the mitt camp, the little square top with the big palms
-
human palms, not potted ones
-
on banners on each side of the entrance, and the bigger banner across the top. Dr. Magus, it read, Palmistry, Astrology, Card and Crystal Readings. Walk In.

Mack Irby stopped. Right here and now, if Doc wasn't busy, he could find out what the score was on Maybelle. If she'd tied up with somebody else it would be smarter not to look her up. Making a pass could cause trouble, and trouble was the last thing he wanted to risk now.

He stepped close to the entrance. "Doc," he called. Dr. Magus stepped into the entrance. A little man with a gray goatee, silvery hair, sharp eyes twinkling behind gold-rimmed
gl
asses, dapper.

He held out his hand. "Mack. Good to see you. No biz, and I was getting set to knock off and drown my sorrows. Come on in and have a drink with me."

"Just wanted to ask you a question, Doc. Afraid I haven't got time for a drink, want to catch somebody before they get away."

Dr. Magus smiled. "You have plenty of time, my boy. The model show is still putting on a bally
-
I can hear them
-
and that means there's at least one more show."

"You win, doc." Irby chuckled. "One drink."

He followed Dr. Magus inside.

"We'll even use glasses," Dr. Magus said. He poured them each a drink into a Lily cup. "So we can make it a toast to your getting back. Luck, Mack."

"Thanks, Doc." They drank. "How've things been going on the lot?"

"
F
ine. And now I'll save you asking that question. Maybelle is still free."

Mack Irby stared at him. How the hell had Doc known he'd wanted to ask about Maybelle? The guess that he'd been heading for the model show wouldn't have been a hard one for him to make, under the circumstances. Just back from seven weeks in a hospital. But there were three girls with the model show and either of the other two besides Maybelle would have been a more natural guess for Doc. Trixie Connor because she put out for cash and, unless she'd already made a date, she'd be a sure thing. Or Honey McGlassen because he'd had fun with her before, nothing steady but half a dozen times maybe. And he'd never once made a pass at Maybelle because Maybelle had been Charlie Flack's woman.

Suddenly a frightening thought hit Mack Irby. What if Doc, that smart little bastard of a mentalist, really could read minds? What if right now he was reading about
-
he tried to jerk his mind away from the bank robbery, from the money and where the money was hidden. Don't think about-

He said quickly, "Thanks, Doc. But I really got to run. Got to see someone else before I look up Maybelle." He got out of there as fast as he could. Still worrying. He'd make a point of giving Doc as wide a berth as possible while he was still here at the carney.

Then he started thinking about Maybelle, and the fact that she was still free, and that was enough to get his mind off Doc. He'd had a yen for Maybelle all season but he hadn't dared show it while Charlie was still alive.

The merry-go-round lay ahead, with its mirror-sided ticket booth. He turned a little off course to walk straight toward one of the mirrors, to take a look at himself. Not bad, he thought. Not even with a slight limp and a cane.

Good build, broad shoulders. Maybe not as broad as Charlie's had been, but then his face made up for that. It was a lean, hard, handsome face, a face women liked.

His suit looked all right, too, cleaned and freshly pressed, and the solid color lemon yellow tie went beautifully with the dark blue shirt. He grinned at himself and his reflection grinned back, showing yellowish, irregular teeth that stopped the grin; well, now that he had all the money in the world he'd have those teeth cleaned and straightened. Ought to have had it done long ago. He straightened his tie, walked around the ticket booth and on down the midway.

Down the row of hanky panks
-
the string game, the fish pond, the fortune wheel, the milk bottle game
-
and there weren't any marks in front of the milk bottle game so he stopped there. Reminded. He'd need a place to take Maybelle tonight, if he got her, and he might as well line it up now. It wouldn't go to waste. If he couldn't get Maybelle he'd find someone else; after seven weeks' continence he wasn't sleeping alone tonight. And Jesse Rau, who ran the ball game, pitched a sleeping top he was always willing to rent for an hour or for a night. Ordinarily Jesse and his punk, Sammy the halfwit, slept in it, but if he rented it for all night he and the punk would doss down under one of the bally platforms.