dears. They will indeed.”
By now I’m surrounded. The men have all but disappeared, and I let myself drift along in the current of churchgoers and ladies, of young fellas and the rest of the non-red-blooded Americans.
The horse with his tail where his head should be is exactly that—a horse backed into a standing stall so that his tail hangs into his feed bucket.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” says one woman.
“Well, I never!” says another, but mostly there is relieved laughter, because if this is the horse with the tail where his head should be, then how bad can the men’s show be?
There’s a scuffling outside the tent.
“You goddamned sons of bitches! You’re damned right I want my money back—you think I’m gonna pay a quarter to see a goddamned pair of suspenders? You talk about red-blooded Americans, well, this one’s red-blooded all right! I want my goddamned money back!”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, wedging my shoulder between the two women ahead of me.
“Hey, mister! What’s your hurry?”
“Excuse me. Beg your pardon,” I say, pushing my way out.
Cecil and a red-faced man are squaring off. The man advances, places both hands on Cecil’s chest, and shoves him backward. The crowd parts, and Cecil crashes against the striped skirt of his platform. The patrons close in behind, standing on tiptoe, gawking.
I launch myself through them, reaching Cecil just as the other man hauls off and swings—his fist is but an inch or two from Cecil’s chin when I snatch it from the air and twist it behind his back. I lock an arm around his neck and drag him backward. He sputters, reaching up and clawing my forearm. I tighten my grip until my tendons dig into his windpipe and half-drag, half-march him to beyond the end of the midway. Then I chuck him into the dirt. He lies in a cloud of dust, wheezing and grasping his throat.
Within seconds, two suited men breeze past me, lift him by the arms and haul him, still coughing, toward town. They lean into him, pat his back, and mutter encouragement. They straighten his hat, which has miraculously stayed in place.
“Nice work,” says Wade, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You done good. Come on back. They’ll take care of it from here.”
“Who are they?” I say, examining the row of long scratches, beaded with blood, on my forearm.
“Patches. They’ll calm him down and make him happy. That way we won’t catch any heat.” He turns to address the crowd, clapping once—loudly—and then rubbing his hands in front of him. “Okay, folks. Everything’s fine. Nothing more to see here.”
The crowd is reluctant to leave. When the man and his escorts finally disappear behind a redbrick building they start to dribble away, but continue to glance hopefully over their shoulders, afraid they’ll miss something.
Jimmy pushes his way through the stragglers.
“Hey,” he says. “Cecil wants to see you.”
He leads me through to the back end. Cecil sits on the very edge of a folding chair. His legs and spat-clad feet stick straight out. His face is red and moist, and he fans himself with a program. His free hand pats various pockets and then reaches into his vest. He pulls out a flat, square bottle, curls his lips back, and pulls the cork out with his teeth. He spits it off to the side and tips the bottle up. Then he catches sight of me.
He stares for a moment, the bottle poised at his lips. He lowers it again, resting it on his rounded belly. He drums his fingers against it, surveying me.
“You handled yourself pretty well out there,” he says finally.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Dunno. Football. School. Wrangling the odd bull who objected to losing his testicles.”
He watches me a moment longer, fingers still drumming, lips pursed. “Camel got you on the show yet?”
“Not officially. No sir.”
There’s another long silence. His eyes narrow to slits. “Know how to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes
By now I’m surrounded. The men have all but disappeared, and I let myself drift along in the current of churchgoers and ladies, of young fellas and the rest of the non-red-blooded Americans.
The horse with his tail where his head should be is exactly that—a horse backed into a standing stall so that his tail hangs into his feed bucket.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” says one woman.
“Well, I never!” says another, but mostly there is relieved laughter, because if this is the horse with the tail where his head should be, then how bad can the men’s show be?
There’s a scuffling outside the tent.
“You goddamned sons of bitches! You’re damned right I want my money back—you think I’m gonna pay a quarter to see a goddamned pair of suspenders? You talk about red-blooded Americans, well, this one’s red-blooded all right! I want my goddamned money back!”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, wedging my shoulder between the two women ahead of me.
“Hey, mister! What’s your hurry?”
“Excuse me. Beg your pardon,” I say, pushing my way out.
Cecil and a red-faced man are squaring off. The man advances, places both hands on Cecil’s chest, and shoves him backward. The crowd parts, and Cecil crashes against the striped skirt of his platform. The patrons close in behind, standing on tiptoe, gawking.
I launch myself through them, reaching Cecil just as the other man hauls off and swings—his fist is but an inch or two from Cecil’s chin when I snatch it from the air and twist it behind his back. I lock an arm around his neck and drag him backward. He sputters, reaching up and clawing my forearm. I tighten my grip until my tendons dig into his windpipe and half-drag, half-march him to beyond the end of the midway. Then I chuck him into the dirt. He lies in a cloud of dust, wheezing and grasping his throat.
Within seconds, two suited men breeze past me, lift him by the arms and haul him, still coughing, toward town. They lean into him, pat his back, and mutter encouragement. They straighten his hat, which has miraculously stayed in place.
“Nice work,” says Wade, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You done good. Come on back. They’ll take care of it from here.”
“Who are they?” I say, examining the row of long scratches, beaded with blood, on my forearm.
“Patches. They’ll calm him down and make him happy. That way we won’t catch any heat.” He turns to address the crowd, clapping once—loudly—and then rubbing his hands in front of him. “Okay, folks. Everything’s fine. Nothing more to see here.”
The crowd is reluctant to leave. When the man and his escorts finally disappear behind a redbrick building they start to dribble away, but continue to glance hopefully over their shoulders, afraid they’ll miss something.
Jimmy pushes his way through the stragglers.
“Hey,” he says. “Cecil wants to see you.”
He leads me through to the back end. Cecil sits on the very edge of a folding chair. His legs and spat-clad feet stick straight out. His face is red and moist, and he fans himself with a program. His free hand pats various pockets and then reaches into his vest. He pulls out a flat, square bottle, curls his lips back, and pulls the cork out with his teeth. He spits it off to the side and tips the bottle up. Then he catches sight of me.
He stares for a moment, the bottle poised at his lips. He lowers it again, resting it on his rounded belly. He drums his fingers against it, surveying me.
“You handled yourself pretty well out there,” he says finally.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Dunno. Football. School. Wrangling the odd bull who objected to losing his testicles.”
He watches me a moment longer, fingers still drumming, lips pursed. “Camel got you on the show yet?”
“Not officially. No sir.”
There’s another long silence. His eyes narrow to slits. “Know how to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes
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