“Sure I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s a bunch of baloney, of course. They’re just scamming a bunch of yokels out there in the sticks. No offense to present company, of course,” he said, and smiled at the two other hobos, who scowled.
“Come on, Pike,” said Hammond. “Back me up on this.”
Pike nodded thoughtfully. “I tend not to trust such things. Don’t know much of devilry,” he mused, “but if it can be used for our aim then I suppose in that sense it’s all right.”
“What? You aren’t serious about going to see a goddamn gypsy, are you?” said Hammond.
“I am. And I’m also serious about the tongue in your head, Mr. Hammond.”
“Seems like a waste of time.”
“Why not? It won’t be out of our way any. And as we grow close we need all the guidance we can get.”
“Besides, it’s a carnival, Hammond!” said Roosevelt. “A carnival! Maybe they got a Ferris wheel and… and beer!”
Hammond sighed. “Well, you can depend on beer to work,” he said, “but I don’t know about the gypsy girl.”
They rode through Missouri and then Arkansas, sharing cigarettes and what meat they had, and so passed into Oklahoma. They jumped off at a set of fields close to Shireden and walked the next ten miles into town. When they arrived it was nearly midnight. They found a traveling carnival was arranged in one of the fields. The night was full of torches and reedy music and laughter and the scent of old ale. Aged booths and carts sat squatting in the grass, covered in peeling red and purple paint. Misshapen tents glowed beyond like jellyfish suspended in the ocean deeps. Men and women smeared in paint juggled or sang or danced. Some ushered the drunken townsfolk into games and shrugged indifferently when they lost.
They asked for directions, then wound their way to a dilapidated cart in the far back. It smelled of horse and something sickly sweet, like bile or rot. On the side was a sloppy painting of a young girl’s face with stars around her head, her lips thick and her forehead large. As they approached a man in shirtsleeves came out and squinted at them.
“What you want? Game’s over,” he said sourly.
“We come to see the gypsy girl.”
“The what? She ain’t no gypsy. She’s from Akron. Get out of here, it’s late as hell.”
“We brought money.”
“Lots of people bring money lots of places. It’s a popular thing to bring. Get lost.”
“We come all the way from Missouri to see her.”
“Really?” he said, thinking. “Well. We’re getting popular. Huh. That’s good news. You know what, sure, you can see her. Let me see the money.” They pulled it out and he inspected the coins in their hands. “Fair enough. Hey, Sibyl!” he shouted into the cart. He pounded on the side. “We ain’t done yet! Just few more!”
Nothing came. Then there was a voice but it could have been just the breeze and Connelly did not hear a word in it. But the carnie said in answer, “We got paying customers here. Come on, get your stuff together.”
“It’s late,” whined a girl’s voice. “I don’t want to see them.”
“People don’t want a lot of stuff. It happens.” He turned to the men and winked. “Takes a while, magicking and seering the heavens. Takes some work.” He took out a flask and took a belt from it, then shouted, “Come on, you’re holding up the show!”
“I don’t want to see him.”
“See who?”
She didn’t say anything.
“See who?”
“The big one,” said the girl’s voice, and it was quiet and shook with fear.
All of them looked at Connelly. He raised his hands and shrugged.
“Goddamn it, girl,” said the carnie, and went into the cart. He was there for some time and when he came out he marched up to Connelly. “Let me see your money,” he said.
“Why? You seen it.”
“Let me see it again, then.”
Connelly showed him. The carnie frowned, then returned to the cart and was there for a few minutes more. When he came back out he said, “Okay. We’re good to go, folks. But you’re last,” he said, nodding at Connelly.
“Why?”
“You got a lot of damn questions. Why don’t you ask the damn fortune-teller, huh?”
Connelly shrugged and sat down in the grass with the rest of them. They watched as the old men passed through the beaded curtain. It was too dark to see very far in and both were swallowed by the shadows.
Connelly listened to the drunken singing and atonal music from the carnival across the way. He turned to watch the stragglers go back and forth in the distant fairy lights, moonbeam-white and rose-pink. People staggered out and where they walked grasshoppers sprang from the turf under their feet and twirled away into the sky, faintly luminescent in the weak light.
“What do you think she’s showing them in there?” asked Hammond.
“Not her titties,” said the carnie. “Not for what they paid.”
“Lechery sprawls across the face of creation,” said Pike. “As it always does. One wonders what clay God made men from. Something weak and watery, I’d say.”
“You a religious man?”
“I am.”
“Funny thing, religious fella at a fortune-teller.”
“When I was a boy there was a scrying woman on our street who could look in a teacup and see when the rains would come. She was never wrong. It’s a foolish man who doesn’t think God works in strange places.”
“Or she could have just looked at the sky,” said Hammond quietly, but Pike did not hear.
The two old men came out looking pleased and one said, “You boys are in for a treat!” They made their way into the night.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Hammond. “You believe in fortune-tellers?” he asked Connelly as Roosevelt handed the man his money and went in.
“Don’t know,” said Connelly.
“Well, do you think it’s likely?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, likely some girl knows what’s going to happen to you?”
He thought about it. “No.”
“Jesus. Me neither.”
“What was it I said about blasphemy?” said Pike idly from where he lay in the grass.
“You said I was a Jew before you said anything about blasphemy. Jesus is your God, not mine.”
“I think the whole northeast is lost to godlessness,” said Pike. “All city folk and Yankees hold nothing sacred.”
Time ticked by. The wind rose and fell. Then Roosevelt came out of the cart looking irritated.
“Damn it all!” he told the carnie leaning up against the cart. “That was just… just… Damn it, you just suckered me out of money!”
“Sucker hell,” said the carnie. “I didn’t sucker anything. You might’ve just not liked what she said.”
“I didn’t like any of it!” said Roosevelt. “Everything she said was just damn insulting! Come on, let’s go, boys,” he said to them, and began to stomp away.
“What did she say?” said Pike.
“What?” said Roosevelt, and he stopped.
“What did she say?”
Roosevelt looked at them a moment longer. Then he swore and strode away toward the carnival, shaking his head.
“Could be there’s something here worth a listen,” said Pike, and he stood and gave the man a few coins and went in.
After he was gone the carnie looked at Connelly and Hammond on the grass. He smiled at them. “Say, you boys want anything, uh… anything extra with this?” he asked.
