“Don’t mention it.”
I walked away, passing several other game tents where the pitchmen did everything but reach out and grab me to pull me in for a game.
Shriners were standing around in their fezzes like foreign cops. Some of them were ticket-takers; others just stood and in so doing reminded anyone who cared, that the Shrine was sponsoring all this family entertainment. One of the Shriners was Turner.
He was standing in a small open area between the House of Mirrors and the tent where the Bonnie and Clyde Death Car was being exhibited, and he was watching the pretty young girls in tight jeans go by He was tall, a good three inches taller than my five ten, and while neither of us was overweight, he was leaner looking. His hair was dark brown and shaggy, his complexion pale, almost pasty, with heavy five o’clock shadow; his eyes were dark as his hair and so close set they crowded his nose.
He nodded to me as I approached, saying, “How they hangin’, Quarry?”
“Turner,” I said, nodding back. We stood there a few minutes.
“Lots of nice pussy,” he said, smirking. He did a lot of smirking. His voice was like sandpaper rubbing against itself.
I didn’t say anything for a while.
“You won’t see nicer pussy,” he said. “Young pussy. Nice young pussy. You won’t find pussy any tighter. You know what I’m talking about, Quarry?”
“It seems to have something to do with pussy.”
“Bet your ass it does. You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
So we went over to one of the few food stands that had a counter and stools, and ordered knockwurst sandwiches with grilled onions and peppers, and lemonade, and sat at the far end of the counter by ourselves and ate and talked.
“What do you think, Quarry? How’s he look to you?”
“Like a bigger asshole than you.”
“How’m I supposed to take that?”
“Any way you like.”
“I don’t get you, Quarry. Why the fuck you got to be so goddamn hard to get along with? I been trying to get along with you, you know.”
“Sure.”
“Well I am, goddamnit.”
“Drop it, okay?”
This was only our second contact. Turner had been here a week, getting the mark’s pattern down, and I got in last night. Today I was to see if the setup looked kosher enough to go ahead with the hit. We’d had words last night, at Turner’s motel, about the way he was handling his end, his making like a Shriner as a cover. He thought it was a great idea. I thought it sucked. He could’ve picked up any number of menial jobs at the carnival that would’ve given him plenty of opportunity to stake out the mark; his acting the Shriner role was in my opinion idiotic, as the Shriners were local and could spot him as phony.
But the cover had held, apparently, probably because Turner had a good line of bullshit, so what the hell.
“I got to agree with you,” Turner was saying, through a mouthful of knockwurst and onions and what have you, “the guy’s an asshole. You’d think he’d have fucking sense enough to try and blend in. You’d think he’d notice all the noise the other pitchmen are making, and that he’d have sense enough to join in. But no. He just lays back quiet and waits for customers to come see him and when they do, he don’t give a shit. He don’t know much about being inconspicuous.”
“Maybe you could give him some tips.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Guess.”
“Hey, yeah, well and blow it out your ass, Quarry, if you want my opinion. So you going to tell me how it looks to you, or just sit there?”
“It looks okay.”
“I think so, too. How’s tomorrow afternoon sound?”
“Bad. They pull up stakes morning after next. Tomorrow being the last day might make it atypical. Since you went to the trouble of getting his pattern down, we ought to use it.”
“I suppose. Fuck it, anyway.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I had a date tonight. This evening, I mean.”
“A date.”
“Yeah, I was going to get it on between shows with Zamorita.”
“Zamorita.”
“I been humping her. Zamorita. Actually, her name is Hilda something. She’s the woman who turns into a gorilla.”
“You have that effect on all the girls?”
“Funny. I mean, she’s the one with the stage act. She gets in this cage and they dim the lights and do some electrical stuff and she turns into a gorilla. Anyway that’s what it looks like. Actually it’s just a big hoax.”
“Oh, Turner, do you have to spoil everything?”
“You’re a funny guy, Quarry. Funnier than my old man when he takes out his teeth. Anyway, I guess I’ll just have to take a rain check on the bitch. Damn, is she going to be disappointed.”
“I can imagine. Ten o’clock, then?”
“Ten o’clock. I’ll be there.”
“Where exactly?”
He pointed over to a spot near the mark’s tent, between the exhibit with the giant rats and the House of Mirrors. The Winnebago camper was parked behind there, just fifty feet away, among many other such vehicles belonging to the carny people; in the background loomed the truck trailers, the rides, when disassembled, were transported in.
“Okay,” I said. “See you later.”
“See you later.”
I went on some rides, had my weight and age guessed and threw a few balls at a game tent, but not the mark’s. I ended up in Fun World, a king-size arcade in a long, narrow tent. The pinballs and shooting machines held my attention for several hours, and when I finally came out, at nine-thirty, night had replaced dusk; the rides, with their bright neons of every imaginable color, were tracing garish designs against the darkness, like ungodly jewelry or a hand-painted tie.
And at nine-forty, after going to the rental Ford for my silenced nine-millimeter and a light jacket, I had wandered over by the mark’s stall, where he was closing down. The rest of the carnival stayed open till one, but not this clown. He always closed up early, sometimes as early as ten o’clock. Tonight was a new record.
Which was a little disturbing. It’s always disturbing when a mark varies his pattern, even just a little. But even more disturbing when I looked over where Turner was supposed to be and he wasn’t. Well, it was early. He’d be along soon.
By nine fifty-five the mark’s tent was shut down.
Still no Turner.
And the guy was heading back toward his Winnebago.
I hesitated.
Shit.
Turner would be here momentarily.
I went ahead and followed the guy to the camper. It was dark back there, and deserted, except for the mark and me. I took the silenced gun from out of my belt, where the light jacket had covered it, and went in right behind the guy, shutting the camper door behind us, flicking on the light and showing him the nine-millimeter.
And it should have been over just that fast. I should have squeezed the trigger, sent him on his way and me
