Read Online Nightmare Alley by William Lindsay Gresham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Lindsay Gresham
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as if half the night had worn away before Zeena did come back. Stan met her, talking in whispers so as not to disturb the others in the tent, now snoring heavily in their bunks.
“Where’s Pete?”
“Passed out.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“I—I don’t know. He was over by the geek’s layout.”
“God damn it, Stan, I told you to watch him. Oh, well, I’m tuckered out myself. Might as well let him sleep it off. Tomorrow’s another day.”
“Zeena.”
“What is it, honey?”
“Let me walk you home.”
“It ain’t far and I don’t want you getting ideas. The landlady of this dump has a face like a snapping turtle. We don’t want to start no trouble in this burg. We’ve had enough trouble with the wheels pretty near getting shut down for gambling. This is bluenose.”
They had left the tent and the darkened midway stretched out ahead of them, light still streaming from the cookhouse. “I’ll walk you over,” Stan said. There was a leaden feeling in his chest and he fought to throw it off. He laced his fingers in hers and she did not draw her hand away.
In the shadow of the first trees on the edge of the lot they stopped and kissed and Zeena clung to him. “Gosh, honey, I’ve missed you something awful. I guess I need more loving than I thought. But not in the room. That old battle-ax is on the prowl.”
Stan took her arm and started along the road. The moon had set. They passed a field on a little rise and then the road dipped between clay banks with fields above road level. “Let’s go up there,” Stan whispered.
They climbed the bank and spread their coats out on the grass.
Stan reached the Ten-in-One tent just before light. He crept into his bunk and was out like a shot. Then something was chirping in his ear and tugging at his shoulder. A voice like a fiddle’s E string was cutting through the layers of fatigue and the void which was in him from having emptied his nerves.
“Kid, wake up! Wake up, you big lump!” The shrill piping got louder.
Stan growled and opened his eyes. The tent was tawny gold with sun on the outside of it above him. The pestiferous force at his shoulder was Major Mosquito, his blond hair carefully dampened and brushed over his bulging baby forehead.
“Stan, get up! Pete’s dead!”
“What?”
Stan shot off the bunk and felt for his shoes. “What happened to him?”
“Just croaked—the stinking old rum-pot. Got into that bottle of wood alcohol Zeena keeps to burn the phoney questions. It was all gone or pretty near. And Pete’s dead as a herring. His mouth’s hanging open like the Mammoth Cave. Come on, take a look. I kicked him in the ribs a dozen times and he never moved. Come and look at him.”
Without speaking Stan laced up his shoes, carefully, correctly, taking great pains with them. He kept fighting back the thought that wouldn’t stay out of his mind. Then it broke over him like a thunder storm: They’ll hang me. They’ll hang me. They’ll hang me. Only I didn’t mean it. I only wanted to pass him out. I didn’t know it was wood— They’ll hang me. I didn’t mean it. They’ll—”
He leaped from the platform and pressed through the knot of show people around the seeress’s stage. Zeena stepped out and stood facing them, tall and straight and dry-eyed.
“He’s gone all right. He was a good guy and a swell trouper. I told him that alky was bad. Only last night I hid his bottle on him—” She stopped and suddenly ducked back through the curtains.
Stan turned and pushed through the crowd. He walked out of the tent into the early sun and kept on to the edge of the grounds where the telephone poles beside the road carried their looping strands off into the distance.
His foot clinked against something bright and he picked up a burned-out electric bulb which lay in the ashes of a long-dead fire. It was iridescent and smoky inside, dark as a crystal ball on a piece of black velvet. Stan kept it in his hand, looking for a
“Where’s Pete?”
“Passed out.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“I—I don’t know. He was over by the geek’s layout.”
“God damn it, Stan, I told you to watch him. Oh, well, I’m tuckered out myself. Might as well let him sleep it off. Tomorrow’s another day.”
“Zeena.”
“What is it, honey?”
“Let me walk you home.”
“It ain’t far and I don’t want you getting ideas. The landlady of this dump has a face like a snapping turtle. We don’t want to start no trouble in this burg. We’ve had enough trouble with the wheels pretty near getting shut down for gambling. This is bluenose.”
They had left the tent and the darkened midway stretched out ahead of them, light still streaming from the cookhouse. “I’ll walk you over,” Stan said. There was a leaden feeling in his chest and he fought to throw it off. He laced his fingers in hers and she did not draw her hand away.
In the shadow of the first trees on the edge of the lot they stopped and kissed and Zeena clung to him. “Gosh, honey, I’ve missed you something awful. I guess I need more loving than I thought. But not in the room. That old battle-ax is on the prowl.”
Stan took her arm and started along the road. The moon had set. They passed a field on a little rise and then the road dipped between clay banks with fields above road level. “Let’s go up there,” Stan whispered.
They climbed the bank and spread their coats out on the grass.
Stan reached the Ten-in-One tent just before light. He crept into his bunk and was out like a shot. Then something was chirping in his ear and tugging at his shoulder. A voice like a fiddle’s E string was cutting through the layers of fatigue and the void which was in him from having emptied his nerves.
“Kid, wake up! Wake up, you big lump!” The shrill piping got louder.
Stan growled and opened his eyes. The tent was tawny gold with sun on the outside of it above him. The pestiferous force at his shoulder was Major Mosquito, his blond hair carefully dampened and brushed over his bulging baby forehead.
“Stan, get up! Pete’s dead!”
“What?”
Stan shot off the bunk and felt for his shoes. “What happened to him?”
“Just croaked—the stinking old rum-pot. Got into that bottle of wood alcohol Zeena keeps to burn the phoney questions. It was all gone or pretty near. And Pete’s dead as a herring. His mouth’s hanging open like the Mammoth Cave. Come on, take a look. I kicked him in the ribs a dozen times and he never moved. Come and look at him.”
Without speaking Stan laced up his shoes, carefully, correctly, taking great pains with them. He kept fighting back the thought that wouldn’t stay out of his mind. Then it broke over him like a thunder storm: They’ll hang me. They’ll hang me. They’ll hang me. Only I didn’t mean it. I only wanted to pass him out. I didn’t know it was wood— They’ll hang me. I didn’t mean it. They’ll—”
He leaped from the platform and pressed through the knot of show people around the seeress’s stage. Zeena stepped out and stood facing them, tall and straight and dry-eyed.
“He’s gone all right. He was a good guy and a swell trouper. I told him that alky was bad. Only last night I hid his bottle on him—” She stopped and suddenly ducked back through the curtains.
Stan turned and pushed through the crowd. He walked out of the tent into the early sun and kept on to the edge of the grounds where the telephone poles beside the road carried their looping strands off into the distance.
His foot clinked against something bright and he picked up a burned-out electric bulb which lay in the ashes of a long-dead fire. It was iridescent and smoky inside, dark as a crystal ball on a piece of black velvet. Stan kept it in his hand, looking for a
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