them days…”
Stan said nothing but turned her face up and began kissing her. He was fully awake now and could feel the pulse jumping in his throat. He mustn’t seem too eager. Better love her up first, all the way if he could do it again.
He found that he could.
It was Zeena’s turn to keep quiet. Finally Stan said, “What are we going to do about your act?”
Her voice was suddenly crisp. “What about the act?”
“I thought maybe you were thinking of changing it.”
“What for? Ain’t we taking in more on the pitch than ever? Look, honey, if you feel you ought to be cut in for a bigger percentage don’t be bashful-”
“I’m not talking about that,” he interrupted her. “In this damn state nobody can write. Every time I stick a card and a pencil under the nose of some mark he says, ‘You write it for me.’ If I could remember all that stuff I could let ’em keep the cards in their pockets.”
Zeena stretched leisurely, the bed creaking under her. “Don’t you worry about Zeena, honey. When they can’t write their names they’re even more receptive to the answers. Why, I could quit the question-answering part of the act and just get up there and spiel away and then go into the pitch and still turn ’em.”
A thrill of alarm raced along Stan’s nerves at the thought of Zeena’s being able to do without him before he could do without her. “But I mean, couldn’t we work a code act? You could still do it, couldn’t you?”
She chuckled. “Listen, schniggle-fritz, I can do it in my sleep. But it takes a hell of a lot of work to get all them lists and things learned. And the season’s more than half over.”
“I could learn it.”
She thought for a while and then she said, “It’s all right with me, honey. It’s all down in Pete’s book. Only don’t you lose that book or Zeena’ll cut your ears off.”
“You have it here?”
“Wait a minute. Where’s the fire? Sure I’ve got it here. You’ll see it. Don’t go getting sizzle-britches.”
More silence. At last Stan sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “I better get back to that pantry they rented me for a room. We don’t want the townies here to get any more ideas than they’ve got already.” He snapped on the light and began to put on his clothes. In the garish light overhead Zeena looked haggard and battered like a worn wax doll. She had the sheet pulled over her middle but her breasts sagged over it. Her hair was in two brassy braids and the ends were uneven and spiky. Stan put on his shirt and knotted his tie. He slipped on his jacket.
“You’re a funny fella.”
“Why?”
“Getting all dressed up to walk thirty feet down the hall of a fleabag like this at four in the morning.”
Somehow Stan felt this to be a reflection on his courage. His face grew warm. “Nothing like doing things right.”
Zeena yawned cavernously. “Guess you’re right, kiddo. See you in the morning. And thanks for the party.”
He made no move to turn out the light. “Zeena, that notebook- Could I see it?”
She threw off the sheet, got up and squatted to snap open the suitcase. Does a woman always look more naked after you’ve had her, Stan wondered. Zeena rummaged in the bag and drew out a canvas-covered book marked “Ledger.”
“Now run along, honey. Or come back to bed. Make up your mind.”
Stan tucked the book under his arm and switched off the light. He felt his way to the door and with caution turned back the bolt. Yellow light from the hall sliced over the patchy wallpaper as he opened the door.
There was a whisper from the bed. “Stan-”
“What is it?”
“Come kiss your old pal good night.”
He stepped over, kissed her cheek and left without another word, closing the door softly behind him.
The lock of his own door sounded like a rifle shot.
He looked each way along the hall but nothing stirred.
Inside, he tore off his clothes, went to the washbowl and washed and then threw himself down on the bed, propping the book on his bare stomach.
The first pages were taken up with figures and notations:
“Evansport. July 20th. Books-$33.00 taken in. Paid-Plants at $2-$6.00. Plants: Mrs. Jerome Hotchkiss. Leonard Keely, Josiah Boos. All okay. Old spook workers. Boos looks like deacon. Can act a little. Worked the found ring in the coat lining…”
“Spook workers” must refer to the local confederates employed by traveling mediums. Swiftly Stan flipped the pages. More expenses: “F. T. rap squared. Chief Pellett. $50.” That would be an arrest on a charge of fortune telling.
Stan felt like Ali Baba in the cavern of riches left by the Forty Thieves.
Impatiently he turned to the back of the book. On the last page was a heading: “Common Questions.” Beneath it was a list, with figures:
“Is my husband true to me? 56, 29, 18, 42.
“Will mother get well? 18, 3, 7, 12.
“Who poisoned our dog? 3, 2, 3, 0, 3.” Beside this was the notation, “Not a big item but a steady. Every audience. Can pull as cold reading during stall part of act.”
The figures, then, were a record of the number of similar questions collected from the same audience. The question “Is my wife faithful?” had only about a third the number of entries as the one about the husband.
“The chumps,” Stan whispered. “Either too bashful to ask or too dumb to suspect.” But they were anxious to find out, all of them. As if jazzing wasn’t what they all want, the goddamned hypocrites. They all want it. Only nobody else must have it. He turned the page.
“There is a recurring pattern followed by the questions asked. For every unusual question there will be fifty that you have had before. Human nature is the same everywhere. All have the same troubles. They are worried. Can control anybody by finding out what he’s afraid of. Works with question-answering act. Think out things most people are afraid of and hit them right where they live. Health, Wealth, Love. And Travel and Success. They’re all afraid of ill health, of poverty, of boredom, of failure. Fear is the key to human nature. They’re afraid…”
Stan looked past the pages to the garish wallpaper and through it into the world. The geek was made by fear. He was afraid of sobering up and getting the horrors. But what made him a drunk? Fear. Find out what they are afraid of and sell it back to them. That’s the key. The key! He had known it when Clem Hoately had told him how geeks are made. But here was Pete saying the same thing:
Health. Wealth. Love. Travel. Success. “A few have to do with domestic troubles, in-laws, kids, pets. And so on. A few wisenheimers but you can ditch them easily enough. Idea: combine question-answering act with code act. Make list of questions, hook up with code numbers. Answer vague at first, working toward definite. If can see face of spectator and tell when hitting.”
On the following pages was a neatly numbered list of questions. There were exactly a hundred. Number One was “Is my husband true to me?” Number Two was “Will I get a job soon?”
Outside the front of Ayres’ Department Store had turned rosy-red with the coming sun. Stan paid it no heed. The sun slid up, the sound of wagon tires on concrete told of the awakening city. At ten o’clock there was a tap on the door. Stan shook himself. “Yes?”
Zeena’s voice. “Wake up, sleepy head. Rise and shine.”
He unlocked the door and let her in.
“What you got the light on for?” She turned it out, then saw the book. “Lord’s sake, kid, ain’t you been to bed at all?”
Stan rubbed his eyes and stood up. “Ask me a number. Any number up to a hundred.”
“Fifty-five.”
“Will my mother-in-law always live with us?”
Zeena sat down beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. “You know what I think, kid? I think you’re a mind reader.”
