Time Was (33 page)

“Can I
please
smack him now?” asked Stonewall.

“Not if I beat you to him first,” replied Psy–4.

They all looked at one another, then laughed.

 

Morgan's own booth—a straightforward water race game—was located at the far end of the midway. He was more than happy to show Killaine how his game was played.

“Here,” he said, handing her a squirt gun. “Be careful, it's loaded.”

“Very funny,” she said.

“One of the ways that you can spot a potential flat store is to watch and see how complicated the game is. The more complicated the rules of a game, the higher the chances that it's probably rigged in some way.

“This game,” he said, standing a little to the left behind her, “is really simple. A customer plunks down a quarter, picks out a squirt gun from the rack, and aims at the clown's mouth at the back of the booth. Go on.”

Killaine began to take a classic shooter's stance but was stopped when Morgan reached over and put a hand on her forearm.

“No, no, no,” he said. “I mean, I know why you'd position yourself like that—”

“Training,” she replied.

“Right. Thing is, humor me here. Pretend that you're just an average, everyday schmo here to have a good time. The type of person who only sees guns fired on television.”

Killaine nodded her head, relaxed her stand, and used only one hand to hold the gun and point it at the clown face.

“Thank you,” said Morgan. “Now, all you have to do is squirt enough water into the clown's mouth to fill the balloon under his neck.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Once it's full of water, it's shaped like a bow tie.”

Killaine took a couple of shots, and was surprised that it wasn't easier to hit the mouth.

“A lot of people are surprised by that,” said Morgan. “That's because they make the mistake of assuming that water will shoot like a bullet—in a straight line. But water arcs, as you have seen.”

“That hardly seems fair!”

“Ah-ah,” said Morgan waving a finger, “I never said it was easy, but it
is
fair. I can't change the laws of physics.”

“So how does a person win?”

“Like this.” He took the gun from her hand, pointed it at the clown's mouth, and gave the trigger six slow, steady squeezes, filling the bow-tie balloon and bursting it.

“There,” he said, handing the gun back to her. “No rigging, no hidden tubes in the clown to redirect the water, nothing but good, clean, honest fun.”

“You never have any problems?”

“Oh, yeah. Occasionally I get the odd assho—uh,
jerk
who just can't resist turning the squirt gun on me.”

“That's so rude.”

“It's also dangerous.” He pointed over the edge of the booth to the series of electric wires that ran along the length of the floor. “At night all the booth lights are on—even the clown faces are lit up. Somebody gets carried away with the water and the operator—in this case,
moi
—is Mr. Crispy Toast.”

Killaine looked at the squirt gun, then the innocent clown face. “I never stopped to think that something this simple could be so dangerous.”

“Only if the players abuse the situation, and that doesn't happen very often.” He held up one of his metal arm-crutches. “Much as I hate to admit it, most folks who play my game get one look at my back and these crutches and—bingo!—such courtesy you've never seen.”

“Okay, Danny, you've shown me how an honest game is played. Give me an example of how a rigged game goes down.”

“‘Goes down'? Where'd you pick up that little phrase, reruns of
Hill Street Blues?
”

Killaine gave a short, shocked laugh. “You're making fun of me.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Why?”

“Because you're awfully cute when you're trying to look outraged.”

“Watch yourself, Morgan. I've been known to have a nasty temper.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

A smile. “You'd better.”

A bigger smile from him. “I'm shaking already.”

Lots of smiling at each other.

Part of Killaine's mind reminded her that, had she been watching this take place from a distance—say, in a really syrupy love story on television, this would be the part where she would pretend to start vomiting.

“Over there,” said Morgan, pointing to a booth across the midway; this one featured a simple three-balls-in-the-basket game.

“Looks innocent enough,” said Killaine, looking at the prizes and the slanted table in the back where three large wicker baskets sat.

“Come on,” he said, and started across toward the booth.

When they arrived, Morgan introduced Killaine to a large man named Herbert, the game operator (and the man he'd given the finger to a while earlier, though he didn't tell her that part), and explained to him who she was.

“'Bout danged time you got on this,” said Herbert.

“I trust you'll be able to keep this to yourself?”

“Anything for you, m'friend.”

“Karen wants to see a rip-off played out.” Morgan took two dollars from his pocket and slapped them down on the counter. “Ready?”

“Ready,” replied Herbert, who then launched into a well-memorized pitch: “Step right up, roll right up, ladies and gents, all it costs you is two dollars American for a chance to win any of the fabulous prizes you see displayed on the shelves behind me—not so close, friend, this area's for the paying customers, thank you. It sounds too easy, you say? Two dollars for a chance at that portable CD player? Why, sir, you say, that's insane! Well, mebbe it is, but I'm here to tell you that this is a carnival, folks, and what's a carnival without a little craziness? Why, it's like . . .”

“He loves going through his Pitch,” whispered Morgan to Killaine.

“He's good at it.”

“You bet. Herbert's been a carny all his life.”

“. . .
just two dollars American!
All you gotta do is put three balls into one of the bushel baskets you see behind me. Piece of cake. Here, watch me!”

Herbert tossed one of the softballs—underhanded—into the basket.

“Yessir, folks, it's
that
easy. Who'll dare to give it a try? How's about you, sir? Win a prize for your lovely lady?”

Morgan slid his money forward.

“Nosir,” said Herbert, waving a hand, “nosir, I don't expect you to take my word for it, too many folks in this here world want to take advantage of a trusting soul like yourself. Tell'ya what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give,
free of charge
, because I'm an honest fellow and you look like one smart cookie, I'm gonna let you take
a free practice shot!
” And with that, he tossed Morgan a Softball identical to the one he'd thrown into the basket. “Go on, sir, lob one in that basket for the lovely lady!”

Morgan tossed the ball—overhand—into the same basket as Herbert's.

“Outstanding! Outstanding!” cried Herbert. “Folks, we got ourselves a nat-choo-ral here! A prodigy! Here you go, sir! Here's your three balls!”

He handed three softballs to Morgan, removed the other balls from the basket, and stood to the side.

Morgan tossed all three balls.

Only one of them stayed in the basket; the other two went in, then bounced out.

“Okay,” he said, turning toward Killaine. “How'd he do it?”

“Do what?”

“How'd Herbert rig the game?”

“He didn't.”

Herbert laughed. “Yeah, I did.”

Killaine thought about it for a moment. “Then you've got an . . . an outside man working something from behind the booth. A pedal or something that pushes the balls back out.”

“Nope.”

She looked at Morgan. “Okay, I give.”

“Sure you don't want to try and figure it out before we tell you?”

“I'm sure. Whatever he did, he did right in front of my eyes while I was standing here.”

“Yes, that he did.”

“I didn't see him do it—by the way, Herbert, whatever you did, it was very impressive.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” said the large man, tipping his hat.

“Talk it through,” said Morgan. “You'd be surprised at how easy it is to figure.”

“Well, he started with his Pitch—”

“Distracting as hell, isn't it?”

“I thought it was kind of exciting to listen to.”

Morgan nodded his head. “Like I said, distracting. That's the first element of the ploy—your Pitch. The louder, wordier, and faster the pitch, the more exciting it comes across to the crowd. People are so busy enjoying the operator's showmanship, they don't think to concentrate on anything else.”

“Add to that,” said Herbert, “that if there were customers standing here already playing, the Pitch is doubly distracting to them.”

“Because,” added Morgan, “once you approach the booth, you're looking at one of three things: Herbert, the prizes, and the baskets.”

“Not the softballs?” asked Killaine.

“No,” replied Herbert. “Almost nobody thinks to look at the balls right off.”

“So it's something to do with switching balls?”

“No,” said Morgan. “The ball Herbert tossed in the bushel basket is the same kind I tossed in right after.”

Killaine rubbed her eyes. “Okay, so the Pitch is the first element of the ploy?”

Morgan picked up three more balls. “Second element is the Enticement—in this case, it was my free practice shot.”

“But remember,” said Herbert, “that a customer is more likely to accept an Enticement if he or she thinks they've been challenged. Now, watch.” Herbert tossed a softball—underhanded, once again—into the bushel basket. “Okay, what's wrong with this picture?”

“Nothing that I can think of,” replied Killaine. “Unless the method of tossing the ball has—”

“—not a thing,” said Morgan.

She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. “Okay, I give.”

“Look at me,” said Morgan.

“With pleasure.”

A little more of that smiling stuff between them.

Then Morgan said: “See where I'm standing?”

“At the counter.”

“See where Herbert's standing?”

“Inside the booth—oh.”

“By Jove,” said Morgan in a pitiful Rex Harrison imitation, “I do believe she's got it!”

“The distance,” whispered Killaine.

“Right!” shouted Morgan, snatching up her hand and giving it a quick kiss. “With his arm fully extended, Herbert's three feet closer to the basket than I am.”

Herbert parted his hands before him. “Couldn't miss it if I was falling-down drunk.”

“Now,” continued Morgan, “this is where the third element comes into the picture—Ego. Herbert's given his Pitch, he's offered the Enticement, and now the customer's Ego comes into it. Herbert shows them how easy it is to make a basket. He hands them the ball. Did you happen to notice where he stood after he gave me the ball?”

“To the side.”

“To my
right
side,” said Morgan. “That's because he saw that I was left-handed. If I were right-handed, he would have stood on my left.”

It was beginning to come clear to Killaine. “ . . . blocking the other two baskets.”

“Right again. This way, now that my Ego is involved, I not only
want
to get my ball in the same basket as Herbert got his, but I don't have any choice because his body's blocking the other two. So I toss, and the ball goes in but doesn't bounce out.”

Killaine snapped her fingers. “That's because Herbert's ball is already in there to kill the bounce so your free shot doesn't rebound out. The basket is . . . is . . .”

“Dead,” prompted Morgan.

“. . .
dead
, so the free practice ball tossed by the player will stay inside. But once he collected your money, he took both balls out of the basket and stood to the side so you could aim at
any
of the baskets, but since you're throwing at the baskets from a slightly farther distance, and because there's nothing in there to kill the bounce, the balls rebound out.”

Morgan grinned and looked at Herbert. “Not only gorgeous, but smart to boot!”

“Wow,” Killaine whispered.

“Now, thing is,” said Herbert, “I was only showin' you how it'd be set up if I was gonna cheat you. For regular play, I put one of these into each basket.” He produced a rubber ball big enough to fit in his palm; it looked like the type of exercise ball a physical therapist might give to patient who'd broken their hand. “These weigh a bit less than half of what the softballs weigh, and since they're smaller they stay down in the bottoms of the baskets, so you can't see them from anyplace but in here.”

“And you do that . . . why?”

“To soften the bounce but not kill it. That way, everybody's got the same chance. Most folks just naturally throw too hard, so I don't lose too many CD players.”

“The point is,” said Morgan, “that it's an honest game and everyone has fun.” He looked over his shoulder as he turned around. “Thanks a lot, Herbert.”

“Any time, Danny.” Then, to Killaine: “Nice meeting you, Karen. You take good care of him, hear?”

“I will.”

And, crazy as it seemed, Killaine meant it.

“That was pretty sharp, the way you figured it out,” said Morgan.

Killaine couldn't help herself—she reached out and touched his cheek again.

To her joy, she felt Morgan lean into her touch, ever so slightly.

“Come on around back of my booth,” he said. “I've got another tent set up.”

“To show me the ropes?”

“The ropes, the rigs, the gizmos, hoochimajiggers and whatchamacallits.”