Authors: David Daniel
The Marble Kite (21 page)
A few dry leaves skittered across the road in my headlights, urged by the rising wind, as I drove back across the city. Cold was coming, but I left my window open, letting the air blow in on me. With some vague notion of making up for the missed meal with simple fare at home, I stopped at a supermarket and bought a bag of provisions, though I wasn't very hungry. I put the bag in the trunk and crossed the river and went out the VFW, my mind finding focus on nothing in particular. I twitched the radio on, then twitched it off again. As I passed Regatta Field, I noticed several vehicles in the field, ringed in a semicircle, facing inward, their headlights aimed in a converging V and illuminating a group of people. That was odd; the carnival crew was still holed up at the Venice as far as I knew. There wasn't supposed to be anyone at the fairgrounds. Curious, I parked along the street and got out. For a moment, I stood there, uncertain, then I unlocked my trunk and got my .38 out of the hidden compartment by the wheel well. I snapped the holster onto my belt. As I started across the big field, an old plastic bag came whipping along, wrapped around my ankle for a moment, then danced on past. The air had a damp ash smell from the burnt-out haunted house.
When I got to where I could make out details, though no one had
seen me yet, I realized the group consisted of ten or twelve people. Some had their backs to the headlights, and others stood slightly farther away, so I couldn't make out any faces; they were just shapes and shadows in the nightâa shaved head here, a baseball cap there. Carnival people, gathered for an informal meeting?
seen me yet, I realized the group consisted of ten or twelve people. Some had their backs to the headlights, and others stood slightly farther away, so I couldn't make out any faces; they were just shapes and shadows in the nightâa shaved head here, a baseball cap there. Carnival people, gathered for an informal meeting?
Then, over the sigh of wind, a voice said, “Since you birds shut down the show, we figured we'd come out and get our own show. Lucky we found you.”
My hackles rose. I edged closer, and that's when I saw that the two people facing the light were Moses Maxwell and Nicole. Moses was wearing his porkpie hat, and his face was shiny with sweat. The others, whoever they were, had the two surrounded.
“Hey, you're a pinhead, aren't you, girl?” the man who had spoken before said. He was a tall, lanky party with a beak that could etch glass.
“There's no call for that,” Moses said. “No call for you to be here. Let's just let it alone, shall we, gentlemen? And all go home peaceably.” He said it in his calm way, but I heard a thread of worry in his voice.
“Say what, dude?” the tall man said. “And what would be your role?”
“Maybe he's the bearded lady. Ain't you the bearded lady?” said another, a shaved-head, dressed in shorts and a football jersey with the inevitable number 69.
“Quit it, you!” Nicole said. “Go away.”
Hoots of laughter. “Ooohhh ⦠âQuit it, you,'” Shaved Head mocked. He gripped her arm and gave her a shake.
“Stop it!” Nicole cried. There was an ice-skim of hysteria on her voice.
I looked around, hoping someone else was nearby to even the numbers a little, but there were only the scattered trailers and the shutdown rides. Something had brought Nicole and Moses here, but I didn't waste time trying to figure out what it had been. I needed an angle, something more inspired than simply turning up and saying, “Hi, guys.”
Alongside Ray Embry's trailer, I noticed one of the torches that he used for his juggling stuffed in an open can, and it gave me an idea. One sniff of the wick told me there was still kerosene in it. I hoped it would be enough. Holding the unlit torch, I walked over to the ring of headlights.
At my approach, heads turned. Most of the strangers appeared to be in their twenties, a few slightly older. The tall party looked forty. I stepped just to the edge of the light, and with my free hand I drew my gun. It took a few seconds for the effect to register, then I saw people stiffen.
At my approach, heads turned. Most of the strangers appeared to be in their twenties, a few slightly older. The tall party looked forty. I stepped just to the edge of the light, and with my free hand I drew my gun. It took a few seconds for the effect to register, then I saw people stiffen.
“Mr. Rasmussen!” cried Nicole.
“What the fuâ” began the tall guy.
I held the torch wick down, put the gun barrel next to it, aimed at the ground. If my idea flopped, it was going to be hard to find another entrance line. I squeezed the trigger.
People jumped at the explosion. The snout of flame sparked the torch, which instantly caught fire. The effect was riveting. No one said a word. Hiding my own amazement, I lowered my gun, raised the torch, and walked into the center of the lighted ring.
“You want to play with fire?” I swung the torch in a half circle. In the after-silence of the gunshot, the flames made a suitably dramatic roar. I swung it back again, and people edged away, gawking at me as if I were some madman, or a wraith of vengeance. Even Moses Maxwell and Nicole seemed suddenly not quite sure what to make of me.
“You're shit-crazy, dude,” the tall one said. He had on a green surgical smock and a pair of baggy canvas pants.
“Stick around and see how crazy. I just pushed nine-one-one.”
Several of them traded worried looks, but the tall guy just stared. “We gonna shit our pants over one guy? I think he's bluffing.”
I noticed that the torch flame had dwindled slightly and had given up its throaty sound. I shook it a bit, for effect.
“We could fuckin' take you down right now,” the tall guy said.
I brought the .38 up. My finger was well away from the trigger, but he wouldn't know that. “Grin big, brother,” I said.
“Come on,” said one of the others, “let's split.”
The leader had other words for me, but no one seemed ready to back him up. After a few more seconds of standoff, even he must've agreed that discretion was the better part of valor. They got into the cars and gunned off across the field, headlights stabbing the dark, dust rising in their wake. I holstered the .38.
“Good to see you, Mr. Rasmussen,” Moses said, using his hat to fan himself. “And that's a fact.”
I held the torch out to the side, so we could see one another more clearly in its florid light. “Sorry for the cheesy special effects. Are you two okay?”
Nicole was hugging herself, shivering. Emotions were coming and going on her face like the restless flicker and shadow of the torchlight. “They had me really scared. We didn't hurt them. Why did they do that?”
There was a note of hysteria in her voice, but she seemed to be calming down. Moses put a comforting arm around her. “For some folks it seems to be a labor walking upright all the time. They want to get down on all fours sometimes and howl. Tomorrow, they'll be sobered up and maybe feel ashamed. They ought to, anyway.” He sent me a look. “You suppose they the ones burnt up the trailer?”
I said they could be, though something told me they had been a ragtag group. I could imagine them parked in a local juice mill, corking up a head of steam, until finally someone mentioned the carnies, and they'd tumbled out into cars and come looking for mischief. I snuffed the torch and set it back in the can where I'd found it, although the kerosene smell stayed on me like a taint.
“That true about you calling the police?” Moses asked.
“A bluff. Though I doubt any of that crew is going to report it.”
“Not till they change their shorts, leastways.” Moses chuckled. “Cats were some spooked for a while there.”
“They weren't the only ones,” Nicole said.
I didn't doubt that they'd be back; probably not tonight, and maybe not the same ones, but when people did come again it would be with bigger numbers and more determination. I detected a crusade growing in the city, a need to repulse the invaders, fanned by lamebrain candidates trolling for votes and at least one opinion columnist willing to exploit the issue. “What are you two doing here?” I asked. “Shouldn't you be at the hotel?”
“We came with Pop,” Nicole said.
That surprised me. “He's here?”
“He got let out of the hospital earlier. He insisted on comin' over here.”
As we approached Sonders's darkened motor home, through the little
porthole window I could see that the computer monitor was alight inside, like an eye that refused to close. “What's all the ruckus?” Pop demanded when we went in. “Was that a gunshot?”
porthole window I could see that the computer monitor was alight inside, like an eye that refused to close. “What's all the ruckus?” Pop demanded when we went in. “Was that a gunshot?”
“Nothing to worry about,” I told him.
“Jesus,” he groaned. He was sunk in the patched vinyl recliner. In the curved rim of light cast by the computer screen, I made out some little scraps of toilet paper on his cheeks and chin, where he'd plastered over a bad shaving job.
“What you doin' here practically in the dark?” Moses Maxwell said. He switched on a lamp, and I saw Pop's dismal expression, his eyes sunken and lusterless. With a weak gesture he waved us into chairs. Nicole retreated to the little corner desk, with the computer, and sat. I'd been in the motor home only a couple of times before, but something was different. I couldn't put a finger on what it was. “How you doing, Rasmussen?” Pop asked.
“I'm glad you're out of bed. How do you feel?”
“About like somebody put me on the Rocket Whip and spun me around a thousand turns. I feel like crap,” he said morosely.
I glanced at the others for elaboration but got none. The mood in there was as cheery as the Red Sox dugout after dropping a doubleheader to the Yankees, and there were a lot of evasive looks racketing around the walls. The
walls
âthat's what was different. They were bare. A cardboard carton was pushed into one corner, with the framed citations and awards heaped inside. I nodded at it. “No pawnshop will give you much for those,” I said, pointing at the carton. “There's a glut on keys to cities. I just picked up Bangor and Boise for peanuts.”
walls
âthat's what was different. They were bare. A cardboard carton was pushed into one corner, with the framed citations and awards heaped inside. I nodded at it. “No pawnshop will give you much for those,” I said, pointing at the carton. “There's a glut on keys to cities. I just picked up Bangor and Boise for peanuts.”
Moses Maxwell offered his flask. I waved it away.
“What brought you, Mr. Rasmussen?” he asked politely. “Cold night to be out just cruising, though don't get me wrong, I was some happy to see you.”
I looked from him to Nicole to Sonders, wondering what I was missing. And then something dawned. Squisher had told me. “Hackett visited you at the hospital this afternoon.”
Sonders frowned. “What the hell's that to you?” His voice was scratchy, but it had a note of its former ferocity, and I was beginning to fathom the gloom in the trailer.
“It's done?”
“Already sent word to my accountant to get the paper together. Right, Nicole? You sent them the e-mail?”
“It's gone out, Pop.”
He nodded. “Rag Tyme wants to take possession tomorrow. Any objections?”
I didn't have words for my sudden swarm of thoughts, but my face must've conveyed them. “I needed the reality,” Sonders said. “World don't stop spinnin' just 'cause some old duffer's stomach goes south. Right now I'm feeling the way I ought to be feeling. Lucky, maybe. Who knows?”
“Windy this evenin',” Moses said, tipping his head to listen as a gust whined in the jalousie panes. “The hawk is talkin' out there. Better night for a fellow to be sitting by his home fire with his squeeze.” He held out the flask again. I ignored it.
“Shoot, Moses,” said Sonders. “You're being too damned subtle with your St. Bernard routine. Rasmussen here's something of an idealist. You got to club him over his fool head. If I were you,” he went on, meaning me, “I'd see this as a lucky thing, too. A way out. This ain't the fight you signed on for. You've got cops breathing heat on you. You've got hoodlumsâand a guy in jail who won't give you the time of day. Hell, your lawyer friend evidently got wise.”
I frowned a questioning look at the others, then at Pop. “Fred Meecham?”
“Where the hell you been? Don't you two share scuttlebutt? He quit.”
“Is that true, Pop?” Nicole thrust forward, making the chair creak. “I didn't know that.”
“I only told Moses. Meecham called me just a short while ago, said he was sorry but he had to withdraw.”
I was still trying to muster words. Nicole got to them first. “You mean he isn't Troy's lawyer anymore?”
“Professional reasons is how he explained it. I didn't even ask. I heard the first part plain enough.” He blew a slow, disheartened breath. “He said he wouldn't charge me, and he'd find someone else to recommend.”
“Did you tell him about Rag Tyme?” I said, finding my tongue.
“I didn't say anything.”
I asked to use his phone. I wasn't surprised that Fred Meecham was still in his office; an honest lawyer works hard for his money. He knew from my voice that I'd heard. “Alex, I tried to reach you earlier. I'm just about to go home. Lookâ” He cleared his throat. “It's complicated. I'll try to explain in the morning, first thing.”
“What is it, Fred?”
“I just can't do it. I had to let the case go.”
“Does it concern Rag Tyme?”
“Huh? What's that?” His mystification was genuine.
“Is it what's going on in the city right now?”
“It's many things.
Too
many. They're churning around in my head right now. That's why I want to take time when I explain it to you. I'll recommend other representation. Pepper's case will go to a jury, and who knows? I don't.” I heard him sigh. “Jurors think they come to weigh guilt or innocence, to determine truth, but mostly they're wrestling with their own demons of crime and punishment, outrage and righteousness. And there seem to be plenty of both right now.” I wondered if Fred had been drinking, though I'd never known him to, not at the office. “Somebody left a note on my car,” he said, “implying I was no different than a killer.”
Too
many. They're churning around in my head right now. That's why I want to take time when I explain it to you. I'll recommend other representation. Pepper's case will go to a jury, and who knows? I don't.” I heard him sigh. “Jurors think they come to weigh guilt or innocence, to determine truth, but mostly they're wrestling with their own demons of crime and punishment, outrage and righteousness. And there seem to be plenty of both right now.” I wondered if Fred had been drinking, though I'd never known him to, not at the office. “Somebody left a note on my car,” he said, “implying I was no different than a killer.”
Other books
9781616503369 by Sondrae Bennett
This Christmas by Jane Green
The Plains of Laramie by Lauran Paine
Reflected in You: A Crossfire Novel by Day, Sylvia
The End of Sparta by Victor Davis Hanson
The Matchmakers of Minnow Bay by Kelly Harms
Days With The Undead (Book 1) by Snow, Julianne
An Island Called Moreau by Brian W. Aldiss
Hawk's Slave by Jordan Summers
The Harlot Countess by Joanna Shupe