Billy shifted uneasily in his seat. Cigar smoke drifted in front of his face. Somebody shouted, “Get off the stage or strip nekkid, baby!” He had the vague and unsettling sensation of being watched, yet when he looked around toward the back he saw only a mass of leering faces daubed in green light.
The show began. To a blare of rock music, a fleshy redhead in a black bikini—one of the women who’d been with Santha that afternoon, Billy realized—came strutting out on stage with a large stuffed chimpanzee doll. Her thighs quivered as she rolled her hips, letting the chimp sniff around her barely covered breasts and moving it slowly all over her body. The men were suddenly very quiet, as if mesmerized. After a minute or two of gyrating, the woman rolled around on the floor with the chimp and pretended dismay when her breasts popped free. She lay on her back, thrusting as the chimp sat astride her crotch. She began to moan and writhe, scissoring her legs into the air, her hips bucked faster and faster, her bare breasts trembling. Billy was sure that his eyes were about to pop from their sockets. Then the green lights went out and when they came back on again the barker was there, offering for sale something called Tijuana comic books.
The next dancer was the thin black girl, who contorted herself into positions that would’ve snapped any ordinary backbone. Most of the time her crotch, clad in flimsy panties with a cat’s-eye strategically placed, was aimed toward the audience while her head was resting on the floor. The music hammered and roared, but the girl moved very slowly, as if to her own inner rhythm. Billy caught a glimpse of her eyes once, and saw they were blank of all emotion.
After the barker had tried to sell a Pecker Stretcher, a tall, big-boned girl wearing a bright yellow gown came out to dance; she had a huge mane of yellow hair that flowed down her back, and halfway into her act, when her huge breasts were peeking out from the material and it was obvious she was totally nude underneath, she suddenly whipped off the mane to show she was bald-headed. There was a collective stunned gasp, and then she made sure everybody could see that something else was bald, too.
The lion-girl was followed by a harsh-looking, slightly overweight brunette in a tiger-skin bikini; she mostly stood in one place, making her breasts bounce, flicking the nipples with her fingers, or clenching her buttocks. Then she did a few deep-knee bends that were obviously torturous for her and left her face sheened with sweat. After she’d gone offstage, the barker hawked a set of “French ticklers,” and then she said, “Okay, are you ready to fry? You ready to have your eggs scrambled, boiled, and turned sunny-side up?”
There was a roar of assent.
“Meet Santha…the Panther Girl…”
The lights went out for a few seconds. When they came back on, there was a black shape curled up at center stage. The drums started beating again. Slowly, a shaft of red light strengthened across the stage, like the red dawn on an African field. Billy found himself leaning forward, utterly entranced.
From the black curl a single bare leg lifted up, then sank down again. An arm reached up, stretching. The figure stirred and slowly began to rise. She was wearing a long robe made of sleek black fur, and she kept it tightly around her as she surveyed the audience, her blond curls a shining red halo. Billy saw the dark in her hair where the real color had grown out, and she seemed to have on an inch of make up, but there was a challenge and a defiance in her glowing eyes that made the Pecker Stretcher obsolete. She smiled—faintly, with a touch of dangerous promise—and then, though it hadn’t appeared she’d even moved at all, the black robe dropped slowly lower and lower until it was resting on the full rise of her bosom. She clasped the robe with one hand, and now as she began to move slowly and sinuously to the drumbeats the robe would part to show a brief glimpse of stomach, thigh, or the dark and inviting V between them. She kept her eyes on the audience, and Billy knew she loved to be looked at, loved to be wanted.
And Billy, though he knew lust was a terrible sin, wanted her so badly he thought he would burst apart at the seams.
The black robe continued to drop, but slowly—at Santha’s pace, not the audience’s. There was a heavy silence but for the drumbeats, and smoke swirled in layers like a jungle mist. Then the robe was off and kicked aside, and Santha was naked but for a brief black G-string.
Her hips moved faster. Santha’s face radiated hot need, the muscles of her smooth thighs tensing; she reached out, her fingers rippling through the currents of smoke. Then she was down on her knees, reaching for the audience, on her side, writhing with lust and desire. She stretched like a beautiful cat, then lay on her back and lifted her legs, slowly scissoring them. The drumbeats hammered at Billy’s head, and he knew he couldn’t stand much more of this. She curled her knees up toward her chin, and suddenly the G-string fell away and there was a liquid wink between her thighs.
And then the lights went out.
Breath burst from several sets of lungs. A harsh white light came on, showing all the rips and seams in the painted backdrop, and the barker said, “That’s all, gentlemen! Y’all come back now, hear?”
There were a few shouts of “More!” and assorted catcalls, but the show was over. Billy couldn’t move for a few minutes, because he was as big as a railroad spike and he knew he’d either split his pants or burst his balls if he tried to stagger out. When he finally did stand up, the place was empty. He could just imagine what his folks would say if they knew where he was right now. He limped toward the exit.
“I thought that you was out there. Hey, Choctaw!”
Billy turned. Santha was onstage again, wrapped up in her black robe. His heart almost stuttered to a stop.
“How’d you like it?”
“It was…okay, I guess.”
“Okay? Jeez, we worked our asses off for you boys! And all you have to say is ‘okay’? I saw you out there, but sometimes it’s hard to make out faces in that damned light. How’d you like Leona? You know, the lion-girl.”
“Uh…she was fine.”
“She just joined the show at the first of June. She had a disease when she was a little girl that made her hair fall out.” She smiled when she saw the bewildered look in his eyes. “Not all her hair, dope! She shaves that part.”
“Oh.”
The bulky platinum-blond barker came out, coiling up the microphone cord. She was smoking a cheroot and scowling with an expression that might’ve shattered a mirror. “Christ! Did you ever see such a bunch of losers? Cheap bastards, too! Fuckers wouldn’t even buy one set of ticklers! You goin’ to Barbie’s birthday party!”
“I don’t know,” Santha said. “Maybe.” She glanced over at Billy. “Want to go to a party, Choctaw?”
“I…guess I’d better be getting back to—”
“Oh, come on! Besides, I need somebody to help me carry my makeup case and my wardrobe to my trailer. And I feel bad about jumping your case this afternoon.”
“Better take it while you can,” the barker said, not looking at Billy but rather examining something up in the lights. “Santha’s never fucked an Indian before.”
“Just a party,” Santha told him. She laughed softly. “Come on, I won’t bite.”
“Are you…gonna get dressed?”
“Sure. I’ll put on my chastity belt and my suit of armor. How about that?”
Billy smiled. “Okay, I’ll go.”
“You mean you don’t have to sign out for that old ghost nut you work for?”
“Nope.”
“Good. You can be my date, and get me past all the local horny old men who’ll be waiting outside. Come on back to the dressing room.”
Billy paused just for a few seconds, then followed her back behind the stage. His head was reeling with possibilities, and he thought how wonderful love felt.
The barker muttered, “Another one bites the dust…” and then she switched off the lights.
37
BEING DRUNK, BILLY THOUGHT as he staggered down the midway, was a lot like being in love. Your head spun like a top, your stomach lurched, and you knew yo
u’d done crazy things but you couldn’t quite remember what they were. The last couple of hours were all blurred in his mind; he recalled leaving with Sandia, carrying her makeup case to her trailer for her, and then going with her to somebody else’s trailer where there were a lot of people laughing loud and drinking. Santha had introduced him as Choctaw, somebody had put a beer in his hand, and an hour after that he was seriously contemplating Leona’s bald pate while she told him her life story. The trailer had overflowed with people, music blared into the night, and after his sixth beer Billy had found himself on the wrong end of a stubby cigarette that had set fire to his lungs and, strangely, reminded him of the pipe he’d smoked with his old grandmother. Only this time, instead of seeing visions, he’d giggled like an ape and told ghost stories that he invented off the top of his ripped-open head. He remembered feeling a green burn of jealousy as he saw Santha being embraced by another man; he thought that the man and Santha had left the party together but now it didn’t matter. In the morning, it might. When he’d finally left, Barbie the black contortionist had hugged him and thanked him for coming, and now he was trying to keep from walking in circles and right angles.
He was not so drunk that he didn’t take a long detour around the Octopus. A pale mist lay close to the earth along the midway. He wondered vaguely if he was a fool for being in love with a woman like Santha, older than he was and more experienced by a country mile. Was she playing with him, laughing behind his back? Hell, he thought, I hardly even know her! But she sure is pretty, even with all that glop on her face. Tomorrow he might just wander by her trailer to see what she looked like palefaced. Never fucked an Indian. He had to stop drinking like this now, or even the beers wouldn’t help him sleep.
“Boy?” someone said quietly.
Billy stopped and looked around; he thought he’d heard a voice, but…
“I’m over here.”
Billy still couldn’t see anyone. The Ghost Show tent was just a few yards away. If he could make his legs cross the midway without folding on him, he’d be okay. “Huh? Where?”
“Right here.” And the entrance to the Killer Snakes sideshow slowly opened, as if the painted reptile had yawned its jaws wide for him.
“I can’t see you. Turn on a light.”
There was a pause. Then, “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“Hell, no! I’m Billy Creekmore and I’m a Choctaw Indian and know what? I can see ghosts!”
“That’s very good. You must be like me. I enjoy the night.”
“Uh-huh.” Billy looked across the midway at the Ghost Show tent. “Gotta get to sleep…”
“Where have you been?”
“Party. Somebody’s birthday.”
“Well, isn’t that nice. Why don’t you step inside, and we’ll talk.”
He stared at the dark entrance, his vision going in and out of focus. “No. I don’t like snakes. They give me the creeps.”
There was a soft little laugh. “Oh, snakes are wonderful creatures. They’re very good at catching rats.”
“Yeah. Well”—he ran a hand through his tousled hair and started to walk away—“been nice talkin’ to you.”
“Wait! Please. We can talk about…about Santha, if you like.”
“Santha? What about her?”
“Oh, about how lovely she is. And innocent really, deep in her heart. She and I are very close; she tells me all her secrets.”
“She does?”
“Yes.” The voice was a silken whisper: “Come in, and we’ll talk.”
“What kind of secrets?”
“She’s told me things about you, Billy. Step in, and then I’ll turn on the lights and we’ll have a nice long talk.”
“I…can only stay a minute.” He was afraid of crossing that threshold, but he wanted to know who this man was and what Santha might’ve told him. “Are any of those snakes loose?”
“Oh, no. Not a one. Do you think I’m crazy?”
Billy grinned. “Naw.” He took the first step, and found the second one easier: Then he was moving into the clammy darkness and he thrust out his arms to touch whoever was standing there. “Hey, where are…”
Behind him, the door slammed shut. A bolt was thrown. Billy spun around, his beer-fogged brain reacting with agonized slowness. And then a thick rope was coiled around his throat, almost choking him; the weight of it drove him to his knees, where he gripped at the rope to pull it loose. To his horror, it undulated beneath his fingers—and grew tighter. His head was pounding.
“Boy,” the figure whispered, bending close, “there’s a boa constrictor around your neck. If you struggle it’s going to strangle you.”
Billy moaned, tears of terror springing to his eyes. He grabbed at the thing, desperately trying to loosen it.
“I’ll let it kill you,” the man warned solemnly. “You’re drunk, you stumbled in here not knowing where you were—how can I be at fault for that? Don’t struggle, boy. Just listen.”
Billy sat very still, a scream locked behind his teeth. The snakeman knelt down beside him so he could whisper in Billy’s ear. “You’re going to leave that girl alone. You know the one I mean. Santha. I saw you tonight at the show, and I saw you later, at the party. Oh, you couldn’t see me—but I was there.” The snake-man gripped his hair. “You’re a very smart young man, aren’t you? Smarter than Chalky was. Say yes, Mr. Fitts.”
“Yes, Mr. Fitts,” Billy croaked.
“That’s good. Santha is such a beautiful girl, isn’t she? Beauty.” He spoke that word as if it were exotic poison. “But I can’t keep all the men away from her, can I? She doesn’t understand how I feel about her yet, but she will…she will. And when she does she won’t need scum like you. You’re going to leave her alone, and if you don’t I’ll find out about it. Understand?”
Red motes spun before Billy’s eyes. When he tried to nod, the boa tightened.
“Good. That machine whispers to me at night, boy. You know the one: the Octopus. Oh, it tells me everything I need to know. And guess what? It’s watching you. So whatever you do, I’m going to know about it. I can pick any kind of lock, boy—and my snakes can get in anywhere.” He released Billy’s hair, and sat back on his haunches for a moment. Over the ringing of blood in his ears, Billy heard small hissings and slitherings from elsewhere in the tent.
“Don’t move, now,” Fitts said. He slowly worked the boa free from Billy’s neck. Billy pitched forward onto his face in the sawdust. Fitts stood up and prodded him in the ribs with his shoe. “If you’re going to puke, do it on the midway. Go on, get out of here.”
“Help me up. Please…”
“No,” the snake-man whispered. “Crawl.”
The bolt was thrown back, the door opened. Billy, shaking and sick, crawled past the man, who remained a vague outline in the darkness. The door closed quietly behind him.
38
WAYNE FALCONER WAS AWAKENED when something began slowly dragging the sheet off his body.
He sat up abruptly, sleep still fogging his brain, and saw an indistinct form sitting at the foot of his bed. At first he cowered, because for an instant he thought it was that dark and hideous shape he’d seen in his dreams, and now it had come to consume him; but then he blinked and realized it was his father, wearing his bright yellow funeral suit, sitting there with a faint smile on his ruddy, healthy-looking face.
“Hello, son,” J.J. said quietly.
Wayne’s eyes widened, the breath slowly rasping from his lungs. “No,” he said. “No, you’re in the ground… I saw you go into the…”
“Did you? Maybe I am in the ground.” He grinned, showing even white teeth. “But…maybe you did bring part of me back to life, Wayne. Maybe you’re a lot stronger than you thought you were.”
Wayne shook his head. “You’re…”
“Dead? I’ll never be dead to you, son. Because you loved me more than anybody else did. And now you realize how much you needed me, don’t you? Keeping the Crusade going is a hard job, is
n’t it? Working with the businessmen and the lawyers, keeping all the accounts straight, pushing the Crusade forward…you’ve hardly begun, and already you know there’s more to it than you thought. Isn’t that right?”
Wayne’s headache had come back again, crushing his temples. Since the funeral a month ago, the headaches had gotten much worse. He ate aspirin by the handful. “I can’t… I can’t do it alone,” he whispered.
“Alone. Now isn’t that an awful word? It’s kind of like the word dead. But you don’t have to be alone, just like I don’t have to be dead…unless you want it that way.”
“No!” Wayne said, “But I don’t…”
“Shhhhh,” Falconer cautioned, with a finger to his lips. “Your mother’s right down the hall, and we wouldn’t want her to hear.” The shaft of silver moonlight that filtered through the window winked off the buttons on his father’s coat; the shadow that was thrown from his father was huge and shapeless. “I can help you, son, if you let me. I can be with you, and I can guide you.”
“My…head hurts. I…can’t think…”
“You’re only confused. There’s so much responsibility on you, so much work and healing to be done. And you’re still a boy, just going on eighteen. No wonder your head aches, with all that thinking and worrying you have to do. But there are things we have to talk about, Wayne; things you can’t tell anybody else, not in the whole world.”
“What kind of…things?”
Falconer leaned closer to him. Wayne thought there was a red spark in his eyes, down under the pale blue-green. “The girl, Wayne. The girl at the lake.”