Read Online Twilight Eyes by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online Page A

though none of the people who came in seemed bothered by it—or even aware of it.
    I half expected one of the visitors to rush in with word that a carny was missing or even that one had been found dead in the vicinity of the Dodgem Car pavilion, and then they would all look at me because I was an outsider, the newcomer, a likely suspect, and they would see guilt in my face, and . . . But no alarm was raised.
    At last I was told that Mr. Jordan was ready to see me, and when I entered his office at the back of the trailer, I saw at once why he had been given his nickname. He was a good two or three inches shy of six feet, six or seven inches shorter than Joel Tuck, but he weighed about as much as Tuck, at least two hundred and seventy pounds. He had a face like a pudding, a round nose that might have been a pale plum, and a chin as shapeless as a dumpling.
    When I walked through his door, a toy car was running in circles on the top of his desk. It was a little convertible with four tiny clowns sitting in it, and as it moved, the clowns took turns popping up and then sitting down again.
    Winding up another toy, he said, “Look at this one. Just got it yesterday. It’s absolutely great. Absolutely.”
    He put it down, and I saw that it was a metal dog with jointed legs that propelled it across the desk in a series of slow somersaults. He watched it, eyes shining with delight.
    Glancing around the room, I saw toys everywhere. One wall was fitted with bookshelves that held no books, just a colorful collection of miniature windup cars, trucks, figurines, and a tiny windmill that probably boasted moving blades. In one corner two marionettes hung from a peg to prevent the control strings from tangling, and in another corner a ventriloquist’s dummy was perched attentively on a stool.
    I looked back at the desk in time to see the dog complete one last, even slower somersault. Then, with the power provided by the final unwinding length of spring, it sat up on its haunches and raised its forepaws, as if begging for approval of its stunts.
    Jelly Jordan looked at me, grinning broadly. “Ain’t that just absolutely the absolute?”
    I liked him immediately.
    “Terrific,” I said.
    “So you want to join up with Sombra Brothers, do you?” he asked, leaning back in his chair as soon as I had settled in another.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I don’t suppose you’re a concessionaire with your own shop, looking to pay a privilege for a spot on the midway.”
    “No, sir. I’m only seventeen.”
    “Oh, don’t plead youth with me! I’ve known concessionaires that young. Knew a kid who started at fifteen as a weight-guesser, had a real attractive spiel, charmed the marks and did real well, added a couple of other small games to her little empire, then managed to buy herself a duck shoot by the time she was your age, and duck shoots don’t come cheap. Thirty-five thousand bucks, in fact.”
    “Well, I guess by comparison to her I’m already a loser in life.”
    Jelly Jordan grinned. He had a nice grin. “Then you’ll be wanting to be an employee of the Sombra Brothers.”
    “Yes, sir. Or if one of the concessionaires is looking for a helper of any kind . . .”
    “I suppose you ain’t nothing but a roughie, dime-a-dozen muscle, can’t do more than put up the Dive Bomber and the Ferris wheel and load trucks and hump equipment around on your back. Is that right? Nothing more to offer than your sweat?”
    I leaned forward in my chair. “I can operate any hanky-pank there ever was, any winner-every-time game. I can run a mouse-in-the-hole as slick as anyone. I can barker a little, hell, better than two-thirds of the guys I’ve heard chatting up the tip in the gillies and ragbags where I’ve worked, though I don’t claim to be as good as the born pitchmen who probably wind up in the best outfits, like yours. I’m a real good Bozo for a pitch-and-dunk because I don’t mind getting wet, and because the insults I throw at the marks