Mystery Walk

filing cabinets, and on the wall hung a calendar that showed a well-endowed woman in a bikini straddling a watermelon. 'Whatever can I do for you today?'

She said, 'I want to know.'

'What?' he asked. 'Did I hear you right?'

'Yes, I want to know. Now.'

'Shit you say!' Tillman leaped up, belching out smoke like a furnace, and stepped past Ramona to throw open the door. He peered out into the empty corridor, then closed the door again and locked it. 'That bitch Doris listens outside my office,' he told her. 'I've caught her at it twice. Damn it, lady, you've got an awful short memory! We did business. Know what that means? Business means we got a binding contract!'

'I think I already know, Mr. Tillman. But I ... I have to make sure. It's important. ...'

'My ass is important, too! We may have done business, but a lot of it was out of the kindness of my heart. I pulled a lot of strings!' He tried to stare her down and failed. Shaking his head, he puffed on his cigar and retreated behind the fortress of his boxes and desk. His eyes glinted. 'Oh, I see. Sure. It's blackmail, is that it?'

'No. It's not that at—'

Tillman's head darted forward. 'It better not be! I may be in deep, but you're in deeper! You just remember that, if you try to get me in trouble!'

'Mr. Tillman,' Ramona said patiently, and stepped closer to his desk. 'I wouldn't be here asking you about this if I didn't think it was very, very important. I'm not going to blackmail anybody. I'm not going to cause any trouble. But I'm not leaving here until I know.'

'Lady, you signed a goddamned contract. ...'

'I don't care if I signed ten contracts!' Ramona shouted, and instantly the man winced and put a finger to his lips to shush her.

'Please . . . please,' Tillman said, 'keep your voice down! Sit down and calm yourself, will you?' He motioned toward a chair, and reluctantly Ramona sat down. He puffed on his cigar for a moment, trying to think what to do.

'Shitfire, lady!' Tillman crushed the cigar in an ashtray, and sparks jumped like tiny red grasshoppers. 'It's just . . . it's just not ethical! I mean, there's a lot to think about, and I wish you'd—'

'I've thought about it,' Ramona said. 'Now do you tell me or do I have to go see a policeman?'

'You wouldn't,' he sneered. Tillman sat down, and faced Ramona in silence for a moment. Then he sighed deeply and said, 'I'm a born fool for doin' business with a crazy woman!' He slid the top drawer out of his desk and reached into the slot, his fingers searching for the strip of masking tape; he found it, peeled it off, and brought it out. Stuck to the tape was a small key. He looked up at Ramona. 'Don't you ever show your face in my shop again,' he said gravely. 'Do you understand me, lady?' He stood up, went to one wall, and lifted a framed paint-by-numbers picture of a harbor scene. There was a combination safe behind it. Tillman dialed it open, careful to stand in front of it so Ramona couldn't see the numbers.

'You may fool everybody else,' he said, 'but not me, lady. Nosir! You and that boy of yours are natural-born con artists! Pretendin' to talk to ghosts! That's the biggest fool thing I ever heard tell of!' He brought a small metal strongbox out of the safe, laid it on his desk. 'Everybody else might be afraid of you, but I'm not! Nosir!' He opened the strongbox with the little key, and flipped through index cards. 'Creekmore,' he read, and brought the card out. It was slightly yellowed with age; Tillman couldn't suppress a wicked grin as he read it. Then he handed it to the woman. 'Here!'

Ramona looked at it, her mouth set in a tight, grim line.

'Ha!' Tillman laughed. 'Bet that galls your Indian ass, doesn't it?'

She handed the card back and rose from her chair. 'It's as I thought. Thank you.'

'Yeah, that's a real hoot, ain't it!' Tillman returned the card to the strongbox, closed the lid, and locked it. 'But you know my motto: You're always happy when you trade with Hap!'

She looked into his ugly, grinning face and felt the urge to slap it crooked. But what good would that do? Would it change things, or make them right?

'Yeah, that's a real dipsy-doodle!' Tillman chuckled, put the box away in the safe, and closed it, spinning the combination lock. 'Forgive me if I don't see you to the door,' he said sarcastically, 'but I've got a business to—' He turned toward Ramona, but she was already gone. He opened the door and yelled out, 'AND DON'T COME BACK!'

SEVEN

Ghost Show

30

Satan came shambling out into the red spotlight. There was a chorus of screams and jeers. Behind the foul- smelling mask, Billy said, 'Don't forget to tell your friends to see Dr. Mirakle's Ghost Show . . . or I'll be seeing you!' He shook his plastic pitchfork at the dozen or so people who sat before the stage, and heard the muffled thump! as Dr. Mirakle sneaked back inside the black cabinet and closed the lid. Haze drifted in the air from the smoke bombs Mirakle had exploded. At the tent's ceiling bobbed papier-mache ghosts and skeletons as eerie tape-recorded organ music played.

Billy was glad to get backstage and take off the mask of his Satan suit. Last night someone had pelted him with a tomato. He switched the laboring engine to reverse, which drew all the wires and dangling figures backward behind the stage curtain. Then Billy turned on the tent's lights. Dr. Mirakle was 'freed' from the black cabinet— though the lock was a fake and had never been locked at all—and the night's last show was over.

Billy checked all the chains and wires that operated the Ghost Show figures, then went out to pick up the litter of cigarette butts and empty popcorn boxes. Dr. Mirakle went backstage, as he did every night, to place the prop figures in their little individual boxes, like small white coffins. They had one more day in a shopping-center parking lot south of Andalusia; about this time tomorrow night the carnival would be on its way to another small town.

When he was finished, Billy went backstage and washed his hands in a bucket of soapy water, then changed into a fresh shirt.

'And where are you going?' Mirakle asked, carefully placing a ghost into a styrofoam box.

Billy shrugged. 'I thought I'd just walk up the midway, see What's going on.'

'Of course, even though you know every game on the midway is as crooked as a pig's tail. Let's see: clean hands, fresh shirt, combed hair—if I recall my ancient history, 'spiffing up' is what I used to do when I was about to meet a member of the opposite sex. Do you have a certain young lady in mind?'

'No sir.'

'Walking up the midway, eh? You wouldn't be planning to visit a certain sideshow that's got all the roustabouts in such agitation, would you?'

Billy grinned. 'I thought I might look in on it.' The Jungle Love show, down at the far end of the midway, had joined the carnival at the first of the week. There were pictures of the girls out front, and a red-painted legend read see tigra! santha the pantha! barbie balboa! leona the lioness! Not all of the girls were so attractive, but one picture had caught Billy's eye when he'd strolled over there a few days before. The girl in it had short, curly blond hair, and it looked as if all she wore was a black velvet robe. Her legs were bare and shapely, and her pretty gamine face sent out a direct sexual challenge. Billy felt his stomach do slow flipflops every time he looked at that picture, but he hadn't had the time yet to go inside.

Mirakle shook his head. 'I did tell your mother I'd look after you, you know, and I hear some rough customers hang around that exhibition.''