Sideshow. Part 17

Byrum didn't like kids, and he didn't much care for his wife anymore. The way she sat around smoking Lucky Strikes all day while he trudged his fat a.s.s off to the plant every morning was downright ridiculous, watching the Game Show Channel with a cold brew in her fist while he stood around all day with a cold metal wrench in his. It wasn't right, and he didn't appreciate it. And he d.a.m.n sure didn't appreciate those kids running up and down the neighborhood at all hours of the day or night, laughing and giggling and playing their stupid little games.

Laughing and giggling.

They were laughing and giggling, all right.

At him!

It wasn't his fault he'd busted his knee while out hunting all those years ago, wasn't his fault he'd gained all that weight. h.e.l.l, it was an affliction like anything else, a byproduct of an unfortunate accident. People didn't make fun of crash victims who ended up crippled, wheelchair-bound for the rest of their days. They didn't make fun of water-heads or senile old Alzheimer patients. Well, maybe these kids did, *cause they sure as h.e.l.l made fun of Byrum Terwillegher, laughing right at him, saying things well within his earshot as if they didn't care if he heard them or not.

He heard them, all right.

Loud and clear.

Too bad he couldn't get his hands on one or two of those little p.r.i.c.ks. Drag *em down to that cold dark bas.e.m.e.nt and make them wish they'd never laid eyes on Byrum Terwillegher, is what he'd do.

If he thought he could get away with it, which he knew he probably couldn't.

He was sitting in his car, swigging down a shot of Southern Comfort when two of those little neighborhood p.r.i.c.ks came riding their bikes across the clearing. G.o.d, wouldn't he have loved to get his hands on those two. h.e.l.l, they'd p.i.s.sed him off already this afternoon when they went riding by his house. Of course, that wasn't anything new-they always p.i.s.sed him off. All those little p.r.i.c.ks did.

He sat there, swigging his whiskey and chasing it, while Reardon and his pal peddled their way up the dirt road, back toward town. Like they should ever have been out this late to begin with. He had a good mind to tell their parents he'd seen them out here at eleven o'clock at night. That would serve them right, by G.o.d. And by G.o.d, that was just what Byrum thought he would do the very next time he got within shouting distance of Justin Henry's mom. *Well hey there, Sara. Saw that boy of yours out at G.o.dby's field last night... oh, I don't know, *bout eleven o'clock?' Boy, would he just love to see the look on Sara Henry's face when he laid that jewel on her. Maybe he'd say it had been midnight instead. That should get the good old *mommy meter' running in the red.

Maybe he wouldn't bother telling Tricia Reardon at all. Maybe he'd just get her boy alone somewhere and make him wish he'd never been born. Right after he told him what a worthless piece of s.h.i.+t that old man of his was. No wonder Mickey Reardon was so f.u.c.ked up. Oh, well, at least he wasn't gay... like Bruce.

Byrum took one last swig of Southern Comfort, one last chug on his nice cold bottle of c.o.ke. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the crisp, cool air. It was a fine night to be out and about. The stars were in the sky. So was that big old full moon. Byrum always liked a full moon, even though it reminded him of how Myra had trapped him in the backseat of his daddy's old Dodge Plymouth all those years ago. Pregnant on their first go round, married six weeks after that, and still married twenty-five long years later with no end in sight. No end in sight and no way out.

He crossed the field, past Jack Everett's slick black Caddy on his way to the carnival's entrance. There was a man at the entrance, standing under a flat wooden sign that swayed gently back and forth in the breeze. He was a tall man with long grey hair and a long black coat that draped his narrow shoulders. A field of grizzled grey whiskers lay across his lean jaw line. The top hat he wore looked vaguely familiar to Byrum, who was sure he'd seen it somewhere before. He stood beside a cruel-looking guy in clown makeup and baggy old clothes, which struck Byrum's funny bone in just the right fas.h.i.+on. A clown for the kiddies. One that would scare the ever-living s.h.i.+t right out of them.

The tall man greeted Byrum upon his arrival, a professional and courteous salutation befitting a man such as himself, a southern gentleman in such fine standing with the community, one whose roots stretched much further back than most.

"Hannibal Cobb," he said. "Owner and proprietor of the fine establishment you now find yourself in."

To which Byrum replied, "Byrum Terwillegher, the fine country gentleman you now find yourself addressing."

He was addressed by the clown, too, a man, Byrum thought, of some fair breeding himself.

He smiled at Byrum, smiled and said, "We've been waiting."

"As have I," Byrum said. "Waiting all evening to make your acquaintance."

"Well then," the man said. "Step up, my friend. Step right up to Hannibal Cobb's Kansas City Carnival!"

"Yes," said Cobb. "Come on in. Come one and all. Step up to my Kansas City Carnival and have yourselves a ball!"

Byrum stood there, looking out at the midway, and what a midway it was: tents of crisp white canvas so new they smelled like sails dotted the clearing, interspersed between booths and stalls housing a variety of games. And best of all? No kids could be seen running around the place, no snotty-nosed children laughing and giggling and pointing their fat little fingers at him. It was as if the twenty-third hour of the day had brought with it a curfew, running all those insubordinate little s.h.i.+ts right out of there.

Of course that was it.

A curfew.

And wasn't it grand!

He pa.s.sed between Cobb and his smiling companion, into the carnival grounds, happy to have finally made it there.

He'd heard there was a carnival in town, and now here he was to take full advantage of it.

He strolled up the midway, his knee a little stronger now, his step a little lighter.

The place was packed, of course, full of men and women, all of them fine southern folks just like himself. Men and women both young and old. But not too young, praise the Lord. And this place, this fantastic event, was just as he had imagined it. Women walking by in their nice little Sunday dresses, men in their fine, tailored clothes; some smoking cigars, others with pipes in their hands. The women attentive to their men, just as their fine southern upbringing dictated they must be. They strolled up and down the midway with smiles on their faces. Stopping here for a go with the darts, there to see if they might land one of those plastic rings around a long-necked wine bottle.

Byrum stopped and watched Freddie Hagen hoist a huge mallet like a lumberjack over his back shoulder, and then slam it down onto a painted bulls-eye that sat in the middle of the square wooden platform Freddie stood upon, sending a steel ball hurtling skyward up a narrow wooden channel. DING! went the bell, and Freddie Hagen released the mallet and threw his arms straight up into the air, clenching his fists like a boxer who'd just knocked somebody out, while all around him people clapped and people cheered, and his grandfather clapped a proud hand against his back.

It really was a sight to see, Byrum thought, as he once again began moving up the midway, past the Sideshow tent with its a.s.sortment of freaks, past a shooting gallery whose counter was filled with young men who held rifles steady against their firm, broad shoulders, while their women stood behind them and a line of large plastic ducks moved slowly from one side of the far end of the stall to the other.

There was a tent here and a tent there, stalls and booths on either side of the thoroughfare. Every ride was full, every seat taken, except for the Ferris wheel, which, for some odd reason, turned round and round with no one occupying its empty seats. And the smells wafting off those food wagons, the finest of southern fare: barbecued ribs turning slowly over a smoky, wood fire; chicken grilled so long the meat would barely stay on the bone; thinly-sliced pork brisket, fresh off the grill; pulled pork swimming in a thick and tangy sauce that set Byrum's mouth to watering. Barrels of fine southern tea to wash all that fine southern food down. Yep, Byrum was in the right place, all right, just where he wanted to be.

Exactly where he belonged.

He stepped up to a canvas-covered stall. There was a curious game of skill set up in that booth, one he had never seen before. A bucket full of baseb.a.l.l.s sat on the counter in front of him, a child-sized dummy with a blank and vacuous face at the rear of the place. The man on the other side of the counter wore a blue and white-striped t-s.h.i.+rt and faded jeans. He was a thin guy, with a gold hoop in one ear and one in his nose. He smiled when Byrum picked up a ball and began running his hands around it as if checking the ripeness of a piece of fruit.

"Ten dollars, please," he said, and Byrum slapped a ten-spot on the counter.

He stood in stunned fascination as the shape at the far end of the stall slowly began to change, and clothes began to grow like a fresh new skin over its dull, pink plastic body. A split second later, the blank and featureless face began to fill in, as if a dial was being turned and each revolution brought its features more into focus. First the jeans, then the red t-s.h.i.+rt and soiled Converse tennis shoes. Then came the eyes and the hair, followed by an acne-riddled face that could only have belonged to Mickey Reardon, the smart-a.s.sed little p.r.i.c.k Byrum Terwillegher had been longing to haul off to a secluded little spot so he could teach him a lesson or two he would never forget.

Byrum looked to his left, looked to his right and over his shoulder. All around him were the fine southern ladies and gents he'd been walking the midway with, all smiling and egging him on.

"Let him have it," somebody said.

"Get him, son," said another, as Byrum turned his attention back to the neatest, the most awesome and extraordinary game he had ever borne witness to; the process complete now, the metamorphous having run its course, until standing before him in all his glory was the smug little p.r.i.c.k who'd been laughing behind his back and right into his face longer than he cared to remember. He squeezed the ball a couple of times, rubbing it into his palm like a big-league pitcher. Then he reared back and let it fly, grinning while the seams turned round, and Mickey Reardon's smug little face quickly became a mask of stunned confusion as the ball found his stomach and all of his air rushed out.

And Byrum Terwillegher, really smiling now, picked up another ball and sent it speeding toward its target, which this time turned out to be Mickey Reardon's forehead, as the ball bounced off it, leaving a rapidly swelling lump of purple flesh where it had landed. It was too neat, so d.a.m.n fantastic, and Byrum was so glad he had come, so glad he'd been out in the yard this afternoon to get the word, happy now to have rammed Myra's insolent little head through the screen of her thirty-two-inch color TV while a 1970's version of Bob Barker called out *Come on down', and the gla.s.s burst and sparks danced all around Myra's sizzling flesh, while her hands shook and her hair caught fire, and the rest of her spasmed uncontrollably.

He was happy he'd come, all right.

Nothing could beat this.

He grabbed a ball and fired it off, grabbed another and did the same with it, laughing as they bounced one after another off that smug little neighborhood p.r.i.c.k, who wasn't so smug now, and sure as h.e.l.l wasn't laughing and pointing his fat little fingers-he stood at the rear of the tent, one bloodshot eye closed and another swelled, spitting out blood and pieces of teeth, as Byrum grabbed the b.a.l.l.s and let them fly, and kept grabbing them until the bucket was empty and Mickey Reardon's head hung over his bruised and battered body, ropey strings of b.l.o.o.d.y drool hanging off his split-open lips.

And now Byrum Terwillegher, who had woken this morning with an angry chip on his shoulder, felt like he was on top of the world. He left that little p.r.i.c.k of a dummy bleeding into the dirt, happy to have had the experience; a little disappointed, though, that it hadn't been the real Mickey Reardon he'd been firing those b.a.l.l.s at.

He left the booth and headed up the midway.

He was on fire, now. Everything was going his way, and when he saw the gaming table housed in a small canvas booth standing in the middle of the clearing, he knew he could beat it the same way he'd beaten that stupid-looking little dummy. So he picked up his pace, and made a beeline straight for it.

The guy manning the booth had a half-smoked stogie in his hand. He wore on his head a straw hat with a wide blue band wrapping it. The red and white striped jacket he had on didn't fit him very well, Byrum thought. Tight in the shoulders and loose across the middle, a little too long for his short, pudgy frame.

He stood beside a wooden table, an odd-looking gaming enterprise with a four-foot by four-foot panel slanting its front, another rectangular panel rising from its rear. A series of small, round grooves cut into the panel had different colored numbers painted beneath them. Numbered one to one-hundred, they stood scattered throughout the board, waiting for a steel aggie the man held to come seek one of them out. A wooden sign above the table read: The Moment Of Truth!

"Step right up," he said when Byrum reached him. "Step right up, my fine feathered friend. Five'll get ya ten! Ten'll get ya twenty! Step right up to The Moment Of Truth!"

And Byrum did. He stepped up to the man, and said, "How does this contraption work, Mr., ah... "

"Bruno's my name, and gambling's my game. And this game," he said. "Is very simple. Five'll get ya ten, my friend. Ten'll get ya twenty. Twenty'll get ya fifty and fifty'll net ya a hundred big-ones. Tally up a hundred points with three rolls of this s.h.i.+ny little ball, and the money's all yours." He showed Byrum the aggie he held in the palm of his hand. He closed his hand, opened it and the aggie was gone, repeated the move and three identical steel marbles appeared in its place.

"Huh," Byrum said, then, "Five'll get me ten, you say."

"That's right."

"Ten'll get me twenty."

"You betcha!"

Several slots were numbered with a paltry one, but plenty of slots were numbered twenty-five as well, a good many thirties and forties and fifties to go along with that blood-red one-hundred point bulls-eye sitting square in the board's middle.

For five bucks, he thought, what did he have to lose? So he dug out a five and handed it to Bruno, and the carnival huckster dropped the aggies into the palm of Byrum's outstretched hand.

"Just hold it up here," Bruno said, pointing at an indented track at the top of the board that wound its way in intricate patterns of swirls and crisscrosses all the way down the thing. "And then let it roll."

And Byrum did. He placed the little steel ball on its track, released it and watched it roll down and across the board, delighted when it landed on a forty point groove. The second aggie landed on a fifty point slot, and Byrum knew for a fact that he was going to win. And that was exactly what happened. He busted a hundred. Bruno slapped a ten dollar bill in his fat little fist and Byrum handed him back a twenty. Three more b.a.l.l.s were rolled, and Byrum found himself holding a crisp new fifty dollar bill.

His next three turns did not work out so well, totaling only seventy points when a couple of those steel b.a.l.l.s found themselves nestling into the lower numbers. And now Byrum had a decision to make: double his investment and keep his points, roll three more times and the prize would be tripled, or stop now and lose the wager already ventured.

But Byrum was playing on house money, so he let it rip, easily breaking that hundred point barrier.

It continued that way for a while, Byrum winning and Byrum falling behind, a crowd swarming the booth as Byrum seesawed back and forth a few times before finally breaking through that hundred point finish line. And now the fever was on Byrum, who had in his hand well over a thousand dollars he'd never left the house with. He had a fistful of money and he wanted more, so he said, "What do I get if I let it ride?"

To which Bruno, pulling out a roll of hundred dollar bills large enough to clog a toilet, replied, "This... if ya got b.a.l.l.s enough to see it through."

Byrum had b.a.l.l.s, all right, plenty of them. Besides, he'd been behind the eight-ball enough times to know if he hung with it, sooner or later he'd come back. Eventually those points would add up. They'd have to-because there weren't any zeroes on the board, and the point total d.a.m.n sure couldn't be subtracted.

Luckily for Byrum, the first three rolls netted him sixty-five points, which wasn't good, but wasn't really that bad. Wouldn't have been bad at all if he'd have stopped then. He didn't have anymore house money, but he wasn't in the hole, either. He could have quit and walked away-no richer, but no poorer, either. But he didn't. He doubled his investment-which at this time happened to be thirty-six hundred dollars-and set those steel aggies to spinning, netting a measly fifteen points.

"You're a cheat!" he said.

"Be cheatin' yourself if you give up now," Bruno told him.

"f.u.c.k it," Byrum said. "Let it ride."

"You're sure about that?" Bruno said, "d.a.m.n right."

"Sure you got fourteen-thousand, four hundred dollars to slap in my hand if you don't get the twenty points you need?"

"I won't need it."

"But if you do."

"Then you'll get it."

"Just so you understand. You can't simply sit there and roll those b.a.l.l.s *til the cows come home... *til you get even. It doesn't work that way. Get even now or pay up. That's how it works."

"I understand," Byrum said. What else was he going to say? He didn't have the fourteen grand to pay this p.r.i.c.k off. He didn't have the seventy-two hundred he already owed him.

"Well," Bruno said. "Here you go then."

He dropped the aggies into Byrum's sweaty palm, and then stepped back, smiling as Byrum plucked one of those steel b.a.l.l.s from his hand and gently kissed it, silently praying for someone to get him the h.e.l.l out of this mess. His hand was shaking when he reached for the board, his wide eyes watching in horror as the marble dropped, the crowd cheered, and Bruno cried out, "Ladies and gentleman, the moment of truth is upon us! Round and round she goes, where she stops n.o.body knows!"

He stood there, panic-stricken, sweat beading along his brow as the aggie circled a measly little one point slot, and then cried out, "Yes, G.o.dd.a.m.n you, yes!" as the crowd roared and the aggie dropped right into that 100 point red bulls-eye, and Hannibal Cobb suddenly appeared beside him.

He was smiling, his black eyes twinkling.

"You don't really think you just won all that money, do you?" he said.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n right I do," said Byrum, as Cobb snapped his fingers, and everything went away, the white canvas tents and those fine southern belles, all the sights and sounds that had so recently surrounded him. All of it gone, leaving Byrum standing in the middle of an overgrown field he had no business being in.

"The h.e.l.l is going on here?" he said, as another snapping finger put him not in the middle of an old broken down country carnival, but at the rear of a canvas-covered stall as long as a bowling alley, staring out at every insolent, snotty-nosed brat who had ever tormented him. They stood before him, laughing and pointing, clutching baseb.a.l.l.s in their tight little fists, as Hannibal Cobb snapped his fingers one last time, leaving Byrum Terwillegher staring wide-eyed at something that just couldn't be.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Bo clicked the shotgun's safety into place, and slid Rusty Piersol's gun back across the floor to Reardon. "You know how to use that?" he asked him.

"I think I can figure it out," Reardon said, as he knelt down to pick the gun up.

"Maybe we should call 911," Justin said.

"What do I look like," Bo said, "a moron? That's the first thing I tried."

Justin walked over to the cash register and grabbed the telephone sitting beside it, held the receiver to his ear and a steady screech of static erupted from it.

"Told ya," Bo said, as Justin returned the beige plastic receiver to its cradle.

"What?" Reardon said.

"It's outa whack," Justin said. "Just a bunch of noise."

"Just like mine," Bo said. "And the pay phone outside the gas station."

Just like every phone in the county, Justin thought. Just the way Hannibal Cobb wants it.

"Those your wheels out there?" Bo said.

"Yeah," Reardon said.

"Let's go."