Read Online Nightmare Alley by William Lindsay Gresham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Lindsay Gresham
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where you are now. You’re the luckiest kid in the world. You got a good front—you’re a damn good-looking kid and I wouldn’t crap you up. You can talk. You can do sleights. You got everything. Great magician someday. Only don’t let the carny …” His eyes were glazing over. He stopped speaking and sat rigid.
“Why don’t you turn out the light and take it easy until Zeena gets back?” Stan suggested.
A grunt was his only answer. Then the man stood up and threw back his shoulders. “Kid, you should have seen us when we played the Keith time!”
Good God, is this idiot never going to pass out, Stan thought. Beyond the wooden walls of the understage compartment and the canvas of the tent was the sound of a car’s engine starting, the whirr of the starter rising through the night as the nameless driver pressed it. The motor caught and Stan heard the gears.
“You know, kid—” Pete drew himself up until his head nearly touched the boards of the ceiling. The alcohol seemed to stiffen his back. His chin came up commandingly. “Stan, lad like you could be a great mentalist. Study human nature!” He took a long, last pull at the bottle and finished it. Barely swaying, he opened his eyes wide and swallowed.
“Here—chord from the orchestra, amber spot—and I’m on. Make my spiel, give ’em one laugh, plenty mystery. Then I jump right into the reading. Here’s m’crystal.” He focused his eyes on the empty whisky bottle and Stan watched him with an uneasy twinge. Pete seemed to be coming alive. His eyes became hot and intent.
Then his voice altered and took on depth and power. He passed his left hand slowly over the bottle’s surface. “Since the dawn of history,” he began, his words booming in the wooden box-room, “mankind has sought to see behind the veil which hides him from tomorrow. And through the ages certain men have gazed into the polished crystal and seen. Is it some property of the crystal itself? Or does the gazer use it merely to turn his eyes inward? Who can tell? But visions come. Slowly, shifting their form, visions come …”
Stan found himself watching the empty bottle in which a single pale drop slanted across the bottom. He could not take his eyes away, so contagious was the other’s absorption.
“Wait! The shifting shapes begin to clear. I see fields of grass and rolling hills. And a boy—a boy is running on bare feet through the fields. A dog is with him.”
Too swiftly for his wary mind to check him, Stan whispered the words, “Yes. Gyp.”
Pete’s eyes burned down into the glass. “Happiness then … but for a little while. Now dark mists … sorrow. I see people moving … one man stands out … evil … the boy hates him. Death and the wish of death …”
Stan moved like an explosion. He snatched for the bottle; it slipped and fell to the ground. He kicked it into a corner, his breath coming quick and rapid.
Pete stood for a moment, gazing at his empty hand, then dropped his arm. His shoulders sagged. He crumpled into the folding chair, resting his elbows on the card table. When he raised his face to Stan the eyes were glazed, the mouth slack. “I didn’t mean nothing, boy. You ain’t mad at me, are ya? Just fooling around. Stock reading—fits everybody. Only you got to dress it up.” His tongue had thickened and he paused, his head drooping, then snapping up again. “Everybody had some trouble. Somebody they wanted to kill. Usually for a boy it’s the old man. What’s childhood? Happy one minute, heartbroke the next. Every boy had a dog. Or neighbor’s dog—”
His head fell forward on his forearms. “Just old drunk. Just lush. Lord … Zeena be mad. Don’t you let on, son, you gimme that little drink. She be mad at you, too.” He began to cry softly.
Stan felt his stomach heave with disgust. He turned without a word and left the steaming compartment. In comparison, the air of the Ten-in-One tent, darkened now and still, felt cool.
It seemed
“Why don’t you turn out the light and take it easy until Zeena gets back?” Stan suggested.
A grunt was his only answer. Then the man stood up and threw back his shoulders. “Kid, you should have seen us when we played the Keith time!”
Good God, is this idiot never going to pass out, Stan thought. Beyond the wooden walls of the understage compartment and the canvas of the tent was the sound of a car’s engine starting, the whirr of the starter rising through the night as the nameless driver pressed it. The motor caught and Stan heard the gears.
“You know, kid—” Pete drew himself up until his head nearly touched the boards of the ceiling. The alcohol seemed to stiffen his back. His chin came up commandingly. “Stan, lad like you could be a great mentalist. Study human nature!” He took a long, last pull at the bottle and finished it. Barely swaying, he opened his eyes wide and swallowed.
“Here—chord from the orchestra, amber spot—and I’m on. Make my spiel, give ’em one laugh, plenty mystery. Then I jump right into the reading. Here’s m’crystal.” He focused his eyes on the empty whisky bottle and Stan watched him with an uneasy twinge. Pete seemed to be coming alive. His eyes became hot and intent.
Then his voice altered and took on depth and power. He passed his left hand slowly over the bottle’s surface. “Since the dawn of history,” he began, his words booming in the wooden box-room, “mankind has sought to see behind the veil which hides him from tomorrow. And through the ages certain men have gazed into the polished crystal and seen. Is it some property of the crystal itself? Or does the gazer use it merely to turn his eyes inward? Who can tell? But visions come. Slowly, shifting their form, visions come …”
Stan found himself watching the empty bottle in which a single pale drop slanted across the bottom. He could not take his eyes away, so contagious was the other’s absorption.
“Wait! The shifting shapes begin to clear. I see fields of grass and rolling hills. And a boy—a boy is running on bare feet through the fields. A dog is with him.”
Too swiftly for his wary mind to check him, Stan whispered the words, “Yes. Gyp.”
Pete’s eyes burned down into the glass. “Happiness then … but for a little while. Now dark mists … sorrow. I see people moving … one man stands out … evil … the boy hates him. Death and the wish of death …”
Stan moved like an explosion. He snatched for the bottle; it slipped and fell to the ground. He kicked it into a corner, his breath coming quick and rapid.
Pete stood for a moment, gazing at his empty hand, then dropped his arm. His shoulders sagged. He crumpled into the folding chair, resting his elbows on the card table. When he raised his face to Stan the eyes were glazed, the mouth slack. “I didn’t mean nothing, boy. You ain’t mad at me, are ya? Just fooling around. Stock reading—fits everybody. Only you got to dress it up.” His tongue had thickened and he paused, his head drooping, then snapping up again. “Everybody had some trouble. Somebody they wanted to kill. Usually for a boy it’s the old man. What’s childhood? Happy one minute, heartbroke the next. Every boy had a dog. Or neighbor’s dog—”
His head fell forward on his forearms. “Just old drunk. Just lush. Lord … Zeena be mad. Don’t you let on, son, you gimme that little drink. She be mad at you, too.” He began to cry softly.
Stan felt his stomach heave with disgust. He turned without a word and left the steaming compartment. In comparison, the air of the Ten-in-One tent, darkened now and still, felt cool.
It seemed
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