Madball (23 page)

Why shouldn't he take along that book that had the interesting pictures in it? All of the books would be too heavy to carry with him and anyway some of them just had printing, but that one book wouldn't make his bindle too heavy and then tomorrow he could look at it as much as he wanted to. Even tonight if he came to a place along the tracks where there was enough light.

He popped another cookie into his mouth and opened the door of the compartment where the books had been.

It was empty.

Mr. Evans must have put the books somewhere else. Well, he'd find them, and while he was looking he might even find something else worth taking, some money; maybe. As long as he was stealing from Mr. Evans he might as well take anything else valuable
-
and easy to carry
-
that he could find. It would serve Mr. Evans right because it was Mr. Evans's fault that he was leaving the carnival tonight, Mr. Evans's fault he had to hit the road.

He opened other compartment doors and then drawers. He found quite a few little things that he put on the towel that was going to be his bindle. Things he might be able to sell or trade to somebody for food. He found a cigarette lighter, a necktie pin that had a big
cl
ear stone in it that must be a diamond, and a wrist watch that looked old and beat up but might still be worth something.

But not the books. He couldn't find the books. He still hadn't found them as he put the last marshmallow cookie into his mouth. He stood in the middle of the trailer looking around for doors or drawers that he hadn't opened. He thought to bend down and look under the bunk.

There was a suitcase under
th
e bunk and he pulled
i
t out. Maybe that was where Mr. Evans hid the books.

The suitcase was locked but he'd seen a hammer in a drawer a few minutes before so he got the hammer and hit the lock of the suitcase until it burst open.

It was nice swinging the hammer and it served Mr. Evans right to break the lock on his suitcase. For a moment he thought of using the hammer, now that it was in his hand, on other things in the trailer. Dishes, windows, everything that would break. But that would make too much noise. Someone would be sure to hear it and come. He tossed the hammer down on the bunk and lifted the lid of the suitcase.

On top, the first thing he saw, was a gun, a revolver. He picked it up and it felt nice and heavy in his hand. And deadly and dangerous. Holding it, he felt as though he was growing, bigger and stronger and more grown-up. Why, with this gun he wouldn't have to be afraid of anybody, ever. Not even Jesse. Even Jesse would be afraid of him with this gun. He didn't need the knife now; he took it out of his belt and tossed it on the bunk beside the hammer. He put the revolver into his side trousers pocket.

He looked down to see what else might be in the suitcase. He tossed out some neatly folded clothes.

There was a knock on the door, sharp and loud in the stillness of the night.

Sammy whirled and took the gun out of his pocket, pointing it at the door, his finger on the trigger, his thumb on the hammer ready to pull it back and cock it if the door started to open. But he wouldn't cock it unless the door opened because cocking a gun made it click and whoever was outside might hear. Sammy knew how to fire a revolver all right because once Mr. Weschenberg who ran the shooting gallery had asked him to do an errand and then had let him take a few shots with a rifle and a few with a revolver. He hadn't hit anything except one clay duck that he hadn't been aiming at, but he'd shot all right. And Mr. Weschenberg had showed him how, with a revolver, you pull back the hammer and cock it first and then pull the trigger when you're ready to shoot.

Now Sammy stood there, tense, quiet, waiting to see whether whoever had knocked was going to come on in.

He was so quiet that he scarcely breathed.

But not afraid.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

JUST TWENTY MINUTES before, from the point of vantage he had taken for the purpose of watching, Dr. Magus had sighed with relief as he'd seen Barney King drive off the lot in his jalopy. And right after that he'd looked in the G-top and had seen that Burt was there, just buying chips to sit in the game. Nice to be sure Burt was occupied too, although the chance was negligible that he would have any reason to go back to his unborn show after it had closed for the night.

Now, back in the mitt camp and sitting in the dark so nobody would know he was there and drop in to chew the fat. Dr. Magus looked again at the luminous hands of his wrist watch and decided he'd given Barney enough time. If Barney had for any reason made a false start, had forgotten something and decided to come back for it, he'd have been back before this; by now he'd be too far on the road to come back and still meet that first plane.

His song and dance for Barney had been an easy one and well worked out. Of course luck had been a factor -
Barney's bad luck at poker last night that had made ten bucks look big to him. If Barney had won heavily last night instead, he might have wanted to play again or might have had other plans, and even the twenty bucks Dr. Magus was prepared to raise his offer to might not have looked big enough to tempt him. And more than twenty he couldn't have offered; it would have looked out of line and therefore suspicious.

Yes, Dr. Magus thought, his luck had been in, all down the line since he'd got his first hunch. What a break he'd got at Glenrock
-
that wonderful head nurse remembering what Mack Irby had raved about while coming out from under the Sodium Pentothal. Of course he could give himself credit for having tossed her a beautiful con, a song and dance that had let him ask questions down the line, even about ravings under anesthetic; and his mention of forty-two toy soldiers had been a master stroke; it had given her a key to remembering. Forty-two G's, and then the hiding place handed to him on a silver platter. He'd hoped to get a lead, but not that he would get the big answer in one fell swoop.

The cardboard carton was ready, the rope inside it. He put it out under the canvas behind the mitt camp, in the shadows there. Now the final check-up. Barney's car still gone. Burt still in the poker game.

He got the carton from behind the mitt camp. He took it around behind the unborn show top. It was dark inside but he made sure by calling out Barney's name as he went under the canvas. He played his flashlight around thoroughly to make sure no drunken rideboy had crawled in here to sleep. Everything was okay. The top was empty except for things that belonged there. Including the jar with the forty-two thousand dollar calf fetus.

He reached under the canvas at the back and brought in the carton, The flashlight, lying on the ground, gave him enough light to put the jar into the carton and rope it shut. The jar was heavier than he'd guessed it would be; he was glad he'd be able to carry it by the rope.

Outside again, he stood for long seconds in the darkness, making sure that no one was near, no one was coming. Then he started around behind the tops again. He had a song and dance ready for anyone he might meet who might ask him what the hell he was carrying that looked so heavy, but he didn't meet anyone. He was almost sorry because the song and dance had been a good one and it was a shame to waste it.

In the mitt camp he unroped the carton and lifted the jar out of it, in darkness. No use risking even dim light until he needed it for the finer work of cutting the rubber. He tried the lid. It was a big lid, almost as big in diameter as the jar, and it was on tightly. He had to sit down with his legs wrapped around the jar and use both hands on the lid, one on each side. It turned, finally.

No smell of formaldehyde, the one thing he'd been afraid of.

It was in the bag. It was a lead pipe cinch. It was every other
cliché
he could think of. God still loved him and he could do no wrong.

And over two hours he had. Much more time than he needed, plenty of time to sigh happily and relax long enough to have a leisurely drink to fortify himself. Very carefully he hadn't taken a drink all day today, and now he deserved one, just one but a big one. It was going to be painstaking work cementing the rubber back again so the slit wouldn't show and no water would leak in. One big drink would make his hands steadier.

Still in darkness he found the bottle and a tumbler. This drink wasn't going to be straight from the b
o
ttle; he wanted to sip it, to savor and enjoy every drop of it. He used the flashlight briefly to see to the pouring. The glass was a six-ounce tumbler and he filled it half full of Old Bushmills. Bought for the purpose while he'd been in town that morning.

He raised the glass to his lips, sipped, and dreamed.

The money, the beautiful moolah, only inches and minutes away. Savor this moment, he told himself; realization will never equal it. This fleeting instant, this now, this anticipation
-
prolong it and enjoy it. Money will buy wonderful things but never a moment such as this one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

AFTER A WHILE, after a long while, Sammy decided that whoever had knocked on the trailer door had gone away. He hadn't heard any footsteps, but then he hadn't heard any footsteps coming either. Whoever had been out there must have been wearing slippers or rubber soled shoes that made no sound on the grass. And he must have gone by now; he wouldn't still be standing there waiting this long after knocking. Sammy's muscles ached from the strain of standing so still. His arm ached from holding the revolver pointed at the door.

But he had to make sure that the knocker-on-the-door had really gone away before he went ahead with his searching. He kept the gun in his hand but put his hand around behind him out of sight and then went to the door. He moved the chair away and opened it. Nobody was in sight; he put his head out and looked all around to make sure.

He
cl
osed the door and put the chair against it again to hold it shut. He put the gun back in his pocket and returned to the suitcase. He threw out more clothes. The books didn't seem to be there. There were other things besides clothes, jars and bottles and three little boxes which he opened but whose contents didn't mean anything to him except that they didn't look valuable. And then he threw out the last of the clothes and at the bottom at one end of the suitcase was a shoe box.

He picked it up out of the suitcase
-
and took the lid off.

The shoe box was almost full of money, paper money, in neat stacks. Some of it in packages with paper bands around them, some of it loose.

Sammy stared at the money unbelievingly. He hadn't thought there was that much money in the whole world.

It was an awful lot of money. It must be enough money to buy anything. It must be a million dollars, or maybe a million million dollars. And Jesse had once told him that people who had a million dollars lived in big houses and had people to wait on them and everything they wanted. People who had a million dollars were rich.

Mr. Magus had been right! Sammy was rich already. Rich with paper money, folding money.

Bright pictures came to Sammy. All the cotton candy he could eat. Even a cotton candy machine of his own, like Mr. Magus had suggested, only he wouldn't want to hire someone to run it for him; why, pouring the pink sugar into it and watching the cotton candy form from it would be almost as much fun as eating it.

Now he could buy anything he wanted. He wouldn't want or need the bindle he'd started to make. He wouldn't have to eat those crackers; he could buy hamburger steaks any time he got hungry. Not tonight, maybe it would be too late to find a place open tonight, but his stomach was full at the moment from all the cookies he'd eaten.

Yes, he could forget the bindle. He had all he needed, the box of money and a gun to scare off anybody who tried to take it away from him. He wouldn't give this box of money even to Jesse, even if Jesse begged him to and wanted to take him back. This money was security, too, bigger and better security than he'd had with Jesse.

And in particular he'd never give it back to Mr. Evans. It served Mr. Evans right to have it taken away from him. Only he'd better leave quickly now before Mr. Evans came back because if he tried to take the money away from Sammy, Sammy would have to shoot him. And he didn't really want to shoot anybody, not even Mr. Evans, if he didn't have to. Because if he shot anybody the cops would come after him and they might catch him and put him in jail; then he couldn't spend the money.

He tiptoed to the door and looked around; there was nobody in sight so he stepped outside. He remembered then that he still hadn't found the book, the book with the pictures of naked men and women.

Almost he turned back, but then came the dizzying thought that with all that folding money he didn't need the book. He didn't have to look at pictures. Both Mr. King and Mr. Magus had told him that Miss Trixie would do those thing
s
with him if he gave her paper money.

Maybe even, now that he had a million million dollars, Miss Trixie would run away with him. And they could ride in taxicabs and on trains instead of hitting the road. They could stay in hotels and fancy places, and he'd buy lots of pretty things for Miss Trixie.

He had to find her now, right away.