Nightmare Alley by William Lindsay Gresham Page A

many things, some of them about magic. “Misdirection is the whole works, honey. You don’t need no fancy production boxes and trap doors and trick tables. I’ve always let on that a man that will spend his time learning misdirection can just reach in his pocket and put something in a hat and then go ahead and take it out again and everybody will sit back and gasp, wondering where it came from.”
    “Did you ever do magic?” he asked her.
    Zeena laughed. “Not on your sweet life. There’s very few girls goes in for magic. And that’s the reason. A gal spends all her time learning how to attract attention to herself. Then in magic she has to unlearn all that and learn how to get the audience to look at something else. Strain’s too great. The dolls can never make it. I couldn’t. I’ve always stuck to the mental business. It don’t hurt anybody—makes plenty of friends for you wherever you go. Folks are always crazy to have their fortunes told, and what the hell— You cheer ’em up, give ’em something to wish and hope for. That’s all the preacher does every Sunday. Not much different, being a fortuneteller and a preacher, way I look at it. Everybody hopes for the best and fears the worst and the worst is generally what happens but that don’t stop us from hoping. When you stop hoping you’re in a bad way.”
    Stan nodded. “Has Pete stopped hoping?”
    Zeena was silent and her childish blue eyes were bright. “Sometimes I think he has. Pete’s scared of something—I think he got good and scared of himself a long time ago. That’s what made him such a wiz as a crystal-reader—for a few years. He wished like all get out that he really could read the future in the ball. And when he was up there in front of them he really believed he was doing it. And then all of a sudden he began to see that there wasn’t no magic anywhere to lean on and he had nobody to lean on in the end but himself—not me, not his friends, not Lady Luck—just himself. And he was scared he would let himself down.”
    “So he did?”
    “Yeah. He did.”
    “What’s going to happen to him?”
    Zeena bristled. “Nothing’s going to happen to him. He is a sweet man, down deep. Long as he lasts I’ll stick to him. If it hadn’t been for Pete I’d of probably ended up in a crib house. Now I got a nice trade that’ll always be in demand as long as there’s a soul in the world worried about where next month’s rent is coming from. I can always get along. And take Pete right along with me.”
    Across the tent the talker, Clem Hoately, had mounted the platform of Major Mosquito and started his lecture. The Major drew back one tiny foot and aimed a kick with deadly accuracy at Hoately’s shin. It made the talker stammer for a moment. The midget was snarling like an angry kitten.
    “The Major is a nasty little guy,” Stan said.
    “Sure he is. How’d you like to be shut up in a kid’s body that way? With the marks all yawping at you. It’s different in our racket. We’re up head and shoulders above the marks. We’re better’n they are and they know it. But the Major’s a freak born.”
    “How about Sailor Martin? He’s a made freak.”
    Zeena snorted. “He’s just a pecker carrying a man around with it. He started by having a lot of anchors and nude women tattooed on his arms to show the girls how tough he was or something. Then he got that battleship put on his chest and he was off. He was like a funny paper, with his shirt off, and he figured he might as well make his skin work for him. If he was ever in the Navy, I was born in a convent.”
    “He doesn’t seem to be making much time with your Electric Chair pal.”
    Zeena’s eyes flashed. “He better not. That kid’s not going to get it until she runs into some guy that’ll treat her right. I’ll see to that. I’d beat the be-Jesus out of any snot-nose that went monkeying around Molly.”
    “You and who else?”
    “Me and Bruno.”
    Evansburg, Morristown,