The Dead Zone

make his play alone.

  No! She found herself wanting to shout. Not like that, not alone, it isn't . . . . . . .

  She bit down on her lips. She was afraid that she might throw up if she opened her mouth. Her stomach was very bad now. Johnny's pile of winnings sat alone under the naked lights. Fifty-four dollars, and the single-number pay-off was ten for one.

  The pitchman wet his lips. 'Mister, the state says I'm not supposed to take any single number bets over two dollars. '

  'Come on,' Bernhardt growled. 'You aren't supposed to take trip bets over ten and you just let the guy bet eighteen. What is it, your balls starting to sweat?'

  'No, it's just . .

  'Come on,' Johnny said abruptly. 'One way or the other. My girl's sick. '

  The pitchman sized up the crowd. The crowd looked back at him with hostile eyes. It was bad. They didn't understand that the guy was just throwing his money away and he was trying to restrain him. Fuck it. The crowd wasn't going to like it either way. Let the guy do his headstand and lose his money so he could shut down for the night.

  'Well,' he said, 'as long as none of youse is state inspectors. . . ' He turned to his Wheel. 'Round and round she's gonna go, and where she's gonna stop, ain't nobody knows. '

  He spun, sending the numbers into an immediate blur. For a time that seemed much longer than it actually could have been, there was no sound but the whirring of the Wheel of Fortune, the night wind rippling a swatch of canvas somewhere, and the sick thump in Sarah's own head. In her mind she begged Johnny to put his arm around her but he only stood quietly with his hands on the playing board and his eyes on the Wheel, which seemed determined to spin forever.

  At last it slowed enough for her to be able to read the numbers and she saw 19, the 1 and 9 painted bright red on a black background. Up and down, up and down. The Wheel's smooth whirr broke into a steady ticka-ticka-ticka that was very loud in the stillness.

  Now the numbers marched past the pointer with slowing deliberation.

  One of the roustabouts called out in wonder: 'By the Jesus, it's gonna be close, anyway!'

  Johnny stood calmly, watching the Wheel, and now it seemed to her (although it might have been the sickness, which was now rolling through her belly in gripping, peristaltic waves) that his eyes were almost black. Jekyll and Hyde, she thought, and was suddenly, senselessly, afraid of him.

  Ticka-ticka-ticka.

  The Wheel clicked into second trip, passed 15 and 16, clicked over 17 and, after an instant's hesitation, 18 as well. With a final tick! the pointer dropped into the 19 slot. The crowd held its breath. The Wheel revolved slowly, bringing the pointer up against the small pin between 19 and 20. For a quarter of a second it seemed that the pin could not hold the pointer in the 19 slot; that the last of its dying velocity would carry it over to 20. Then the Wheel rebounded, its force spent, and came to rest.

  For a moment there was no sound from the crowd. No sound at all.

  Then one of the teenagers, soft and awed: 'Hey, man, you just won five hundred and forty dollars. '

  Steve Bernhardt: 'I never seen a run like that. Never. ' Then the crowd cheered. Johnny was slapped on the back, pummeled. People brushed by Sarah to get at him, to touch him, and for the moment they were separated she felt miserable, raw panic. Strengthless, she was butted this way and that, her stomach rolling crazily. A dozen afterimages of the Wheel whirled blackly before her eyes.

  A moment later Johnny was with her and she saw with weak gladness that it really was Johnny and not the composed, mannequinlike figure that had watched the Wheel on its last spin. He looked confused and concerned about her.

  'Baby, I'm sorry,' he said, and she loved him for that.

  'I'm okay,' she answered, not knowing if she was or not. The pitchman cleared his throat. 'The Wheel's shut down,' he said. 'The Wheel's shut down. '

  An accepting, ill-tempered rumble from the crowd.

  The pitchman looked at Johnny. 'I'll have to give you a check, young gentleman. I don't keep that much cash in the booth. '

  'Sure, anything,' Johnny said. 'Just make it quick. The lady here really is sick. '

  'Sure, a check,' Steve Bernhardt said with infinite contempt. 'He'll give you a check that'll bounce as high as the WGAN Tall Tower and he'll be down in Florida for the winter. '

  'My dear sir,' the pitchman began, 'I assure you. . .

  'Oh, go assure your mother, maybe she'll believe you, Bernhardt said. He suddenly reached over the playing board and groped beneath the counter.

  'Hey!' The pitchman yelped. 'This is robbery!'

  The crowd did not appear impressed with his claim.

  'Please,' Sarah muttered. Her head was whirling.

  'I don't care about the money,' Johnny said suddenly. 'Let us by, please. The lady's sick. '

  'Oh, man,' the teenager with the Jimi Hendrix button said, but he and his buddy drew reluctantly aside.

  'No, Johnny,' Sarah said, although she was only holding back from vomiting by an act of will now. 'Get your money. ' Five hundred dollars was Johnny's salary for three weeks.

  'Pay off, you cheap tinhorn!' Bernhardt roared. He brought up the Roi-Tan cigar box from under the counter, pushed it aside without even looking inside it, groped again, and this time came up with a steel lockbox painted industrial green. He slammed it down on the play-board. 'If there ain't five hundred and forty bucks in there, I'll eat my own shirt in front of all these people. ' He dropped a hard, heavy hand on Johnny's shoulder. 'You just wait a minute, sonny. You're gonna have your payday or my name's not Steve Bernhardt. '

  'Really, sir, I don't have that much. . . '

  'You pay,' Steve Bernhardt said, leaning over him, 'or I'll see you shut down. I mean that. I'm sincere about it. '

  The pitchman sighed and fished inside his shirt. He produced a key on a fine-link chain. The crowd sighed. Sarah could stay no longer. Her stomach felt bloated and suddenly as still as death. Everything was going to come up, everything, and at express-train speed. She stumbled away from Johnny's side and battered through the crowd.

  'Honey, you all right?' a woman's voice asked her, and Sarah shook her head blindly.

  'Sarah!' Johnny called.

  You just can't hide . . . from Jekyll and Hyde, she thought incoherently. The fluorescent mask seemed to hang sickly before her eyes in the midway dark as she hurried past the merry-go-round. She struck a light pole with her shoulder, staggered, grabbed it, and threw up. It seemed to come all the way from her heels, convulsing her stomach like a sick, slick fist. She let herself go with it as much as she could.

  Smells like cotton candy, she thought, and with a groan she did it again, then again. Spots danced in front of her eyes. The last heave had brought up little more than mucus and air.

  'Oh, my,' she said weakly, and clung to the light pole to keep from falling over. Somewhere behind her Johnny was calling her name, but she couldn't answer just yet, didn't want to. Her stomach was settling back down a little and for just a moment she wanted to stand here in the dark and congratulate herself on being alive, on having survived her night at the fair.

  'Sarah? Sarah!'

  She spat twice to clear her mouth a little.

  'Over here, Johnny. '

  He came around the carousel with its plaster horses frozen in mid-leap. She saw he was absently clutching a thick wad of greenbacks in one hand.

  'Are you all right?'

  'No, but better. I threw up. '

  'Oh. Oh, Jesus. Let's go home. ' He took her arm gently.

  'You got your money.

  He glanced down at the wad of bills and then tucked it absently into his pants pocket. 'Yeah. Some of it or all of it, I don't know. That burly guy counted it out. '

  Sarah took a handkerchief from her purse and began rubbing her mouth with it. Drink of water, she thought. I'd sell my soul for a drink of water.

  'You ought to care,' she said. 'It's a lot of money
. '

  'Found money brings bad luck,' he said darkly. 'One of my mother's sayings. She has a million of em. And she's death on gambling. '

  'Dyed-in-the-wool Baptist,' Sarah said, and then shuddered convulsively.

  'You okay?' he asked, concerned.

  'The chills,' she said. 'When we get in the car I want the heater on full blast, and. . . oh, Lord, I'm going to do it again. '

  She turned away from him and retched up spittle with a groaning sound. She staggered. He held her gently but firmly. 'Can you get back to the car?'

  'Yes. I'm all right now. ' But her head ached and her mouth tasted foul and the