Funland

As Dave went after him, Joan crouched by the kid squirming on the boardwalk. “I’ve got your ear,” she said. “They’ll put it back on. You’ll be good as new.” She hoped so. He appeared to have several other wounds.

  She heard sirens.

  “An ambulance’ll be here in a minute. Hang on.”

  “Reckon I ain’t got much choice,” the kid muttered.

  She hurried forward, and knelt beside the man who’d been knifed in the stomach. He was conscious, clutching his wound, whimpering and trying to dig his heels into the boardwalk.

  She placed her empty hand on his hands and gently squeezed them. “You’ll be all right. Keep that pressure on the wound. Ambulance is on the way.”

  Then she left him, deciding her best immediate course of action was to check out the wounds of the kid whose ear had been taken off, administer whatever first aid she could before the ambulance arrived.

  Dave hurled himself over the railing and dropped to the beach. When his feet hit the sand, he let himself tumble forward. He rolled on his shoulder, came up facing the ocean, couldn’t spot the kid running away, and pivoted in time to see the kid dashing at him from under the boardwalk.

  Not in time to avoid the thrusting knife.

  As the blade sped toward him, he twisted sideways. Instead of plunging into his chest, it ripped across him. He didn’t feel pain, but he heard a tearing sound and felt a streak of warmth along his ribs.

  He grabbed the attacker’s wrist. With his other hand he smashed the back of the elbow. He heard a pop, felt the joint go. The guy cried out and dropped the knife.

  Dave threw him down on the sand. Kneeling, he yanked the broken arm up behind his back. The kid screamed, but didn’t resist. In seconds, Dave had him cuffed.

  Jingles sat with her back against a piling, deep in the shadows beneath the boardwalk. Her stomach ached from catching that jerk-off’s knee. It seemed to help, sitting curled up this way, hugging her legs to her breasts.

  “How long’s it been?” Lorna asked.

  “Who knows? An hour?” Maybe even longer, Jingles thought. It seemed like ages ago that she’d heard the sirens. She’d peed herself when the kid smashed her, and her damp shorts hadn’t been uncomfortable at first. After a while, though, they’d started making her skin feel hot and itchy. It seemed as if she’d been living with that forever. “Maybe a couple hours,” she added.

  “I bet the cops’ve cleared out by now,” Lorna said.

  “So what?”

  “Maybe we oughta get going.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sure. Case you hadn’t noticed, I’m missing something. That rotten dickhead.”

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  “I don’t know.” Jingles stood up, and let go of her belly long enough to pluck the damp seat of her cut-offs away from her rump. Turning around, she peered through the dark forest of pilings. She saw segments of bright, sunlit beach. A few people were wandering by. “How about you go out and find me a top?” she suggested.

  “What, like grab a bikini off someone?”

  “Or a towel.”

  “Just like that, huh? Then the cops nail me and you’re still under here with your tits in the breeze.”

  Jingles stepped back behind the post and met Lorna’s eyes. “You got any money?”

  “I left my purse in the car.”

  “Yeah, me too. Shit. Those shops up there, they’re loaded with stuff. How about going up and lifting me something?”

  “Get real. Look at me.” She plucked at the front of her clinging tank top. “Where’m I gonna stash you a blouse or whatever, huh?”

  Jingles shook her head. She could see right through the thin fabric of her friend’s top. Nothing could be hidden under the skirt either. It was way too short.

  “You don’t gotta stash it anywhere,” Jingles explained. “Wear it. Grab a blouse, put it on, they’ll think it’s yours.”

  “Forget it. Look at me. You think I can waltz into some shop and get away with anything?”

  “Guess not,” Jingles admitted. Lorna was right. Eyes would be on her the whole time because of her shaved head and clothes that revealed so much of her body. People had stared at her before the fight. Now her lower lip was split and puffy. Now a strap of her top was broken, leaving her right shoulder bare, the strap hanging down so that her breast was partly uncovered. Everybody would watch her. For one reason or another.

  “One look at me,” Lorna said, “a damn shopkeeper’d send for the cops.”

  “Not if it’s a guy,” Jingles said.

  “No way. Forget it.”

  “Then how about going to the car?” she asked.

  “Woody locked it.”

  “So break a window.”

  “He’d kill me.”

  “He ain’t gonna kill nobody. He’s probably behind bars. So you smash a window and get the purses and buy me—”

  “You think I’m nuts? Break into the car in broad daylight?”

  “I’d do it for you.”

  “Easy for you to say, since you ain’t.”

  “Gimme your shirt, I’ll go out and grab something.”

  “Yeah, no thanks. Leave me here alone? You get picked up, and I’m stuck. Huh-uh. I can just see me trying to hitch a ride back to Three Corners, my…” Her eyes went wary. “Don’t even think about it. I can take you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Come on, we’re pals. I’m gonna stick with you. We’ll figure something.”

  Even if she could manage to get Lorna’s shirt, there’d be hell to pay later on. Lorna wouldn’t rest until she got even. Woody’d be in on the payback too.

  “Look,” Lorna said. “How about we wait till dark? Then we jump whoever comes by, and get you something to wear. Good idea?”

  “That’s hours.”

  “You got any better ideas?”

  Jingles shook her head. “Guess not.”

  They sat and waited, several feet apart, each with her back against a piling. After a while Lorna stretched out on the sand.

  Jingles listened to the waves washing in against the shore, footsteps passing overhead, distant sounds of calliope music, the faint, far-off roar of the Hurricane.

  There was nothing much to look at: the sand in front of her; some discarded bottles, bags, and rags probably left behind by winos; pilings as thick as telephone poles; the foundations of some buildings.

  Not many foundations. She supposed that most of the buildings just rested on pilings. Where there were no foundations, the area under the boardwalk stretched into almost total darkness.

  She didn’t like staring into the dark area.

  She turned her eyes to the nearby foundation. She guessed it belonged to the Funhouse, since it was right next to the Oddities place and it was two stories high. That big, it probably needed a foundation.

  The cinder-block wall rose all the way up to the planking of the boardwalk. The gray blocks were decorated with crude artwork, the kind of stuff Jingles had seen, and sometimes drawn, on the walls of bathroom stalls. Among the sketches of sex organs were cartoonlike drawings of skulls, spiders, snakes, mutilated bodies. Words scribbled around and over the pictures mostly referred to sex acts, but others were more disturbing. She read such phrases as “Suk my blood” and “Rip her up,” “Beware!” and “Satan Rules.”

  One phrase, “Inter my parler,” was scrawled on the wall above a patch of crisscrossed boards near the middle of the foundation.

  Jingles supposed that the planks covered a hole in the cinder blocks. Some of the winos had probably broken through the foundation, hoping to take shelter inside the abandoned Funhouse, and the boards had been put up to keep them out.

  After dark, she thought, this place is probably crawling with bums.

  We’ll be gone by then. Soon as the sun goes down, we’re out of here.

  But before the sun went down, the fog came in. The area of darkness in front of Jingles spread closer. She found that she could no longer see the artwork and slogans on the c
inder-block wall—which was just as well, since much of the graffiti made her nervous. But the afternoon’s heat was stolen away.

  Shivering, Jingles eased away from the post. On hands and knees, she looked toward the beach. Out beyond the boardwalk, the air looked gray and misty.

  A few people walked by. She could see them all right.

  The fog was heavy enough to block out the sun, but not so thick that it would offer cover for their escape.

  The sand seemed a lot warmer than the air, so Jingles crawled to her place behind the piling and lay down. She crossed her arms under her face for a pillow. That was better. The chilly air still crept over her back, but her front felt good, nestled in the sand.

  She looked to the right. Lorna was still sprawled there, sleeping. She turned her head the other way.

  She squinted through the faint light at the patch of boards on the Funhouse’s foundation.

  If she could pry some of those boards away…

  Nice and warm inside.

  She gritted her teeth to stop their clicking.

  Wait in there till dark. Safe and cozy.

  Jingles pushed herself up. On her knees, she brushed the sand off her skin. Then she crawled over to Lorna and shook the girl awake.

  Lorna rolled onto her side, curled up, and hugged herself. “God, it’s freezing!”

  “Come on.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Lorna followed Jingles to the boarded area of the foundation. “What’re we doing?”

  “I think we can get in.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “You rather freeze?”

  Jingles dug her fingers under the end of a plank and pulled.

  She expected resistance.

  Figured the boards were nailed into the cinder blocks.

  But the entire patch of crisscrossed wood swung toward her like a door.

  It is a door!

  Christ.

  Through the opening in front of her was total darkness. But she felt heat swelling out.

  “I don’t like this,” Lorna muttered.

  I don’t either, Jingles thought. An actual door. A secret door. She didn’t like it at all.

  But the heat felt wonderful.

  “It’s warm,” she said. “Come on.”

  Jingles stepped into the darkness. Lorna entered after her.

  Jingles pulled the door shut.

  “Yeah,” she said. The warmth seemed to seep into her skin. Her shivering stopped. She sighed. “This is great, huh?”

  Then she felt hands all over her.

  Sixteen

  After taking a shower, Dave removed the sodden bandage that had been applied at the emergency room. The cut, about two inches below his right nipple and nearly four inches long, was cross-hatched with stitches so it resembled a zipper. Though the blade had sliced through his skin, it hadn’t penetrated to the muscle tissue.

  If he’d been a little slower turning aside…

  You really lucked out, he told himself.

  He put together a fresh bandage of gauze and tape and pressed it over the wound.

  In his bedroom, he combed his hair and got into a robe. He went into the kitchen for a beer. As he opened the refrigerator, the doorbell rang.

  He hadn’t really expected Gloria to come by. He’d seen the look on her face when Joan got into the ambulance with him. She hadn’t bothered to show up at the emergency room. But she must’ve decided to come by, after all, and offer her sympathy or congratulations—or interview him for the Standard.

  Maybe she’s not here for that, he thought as he approached the door. Maybe she wants to comfort me. I could go for some comforting of the right kind.

  He opened the door.

  “Hey there, tiger.”

  He felt a smile break out. “My own Chuck Norris.”

  “I brought you some medicine,” Joan said, and lifted a bottle of champagne from the paper bag she was bracing against her chest. Dave saw the foil-wrapped top of another bottle inside the bag.

  “Come on in,” he said.

  She shrugged with one shoulder. “I just wanted to drop these off for you. I’m not in the habit of barging in on people.”

  “So break the habit.” He waved her inside and shut the door. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable. I’ll put some clothes on.”

  He hurried to his bedroom. There he shed his robe and stepped into underwear and corduroy pants. He put on a plaid shirt, slipped his feet into moccasins, and rushed back into the living room.

  Joan was bending over the coffee table, setting the twin bottles of champagne on top of the flattened bag. She smiled at him, straightened up, and rubbed her hands on the sides of her skirt.

  The skirt was very short. It was part of a white denim dress that had a zipper up the front. The zipper wasn’t pulled to the neck. The opening showed a narrow V of skin. Joan’s sleeves were rolled halfway up her forearms.

  “I like your outfit,” Dave said. “You seeing Harold later?”

  “I doubt it. Threw this on figuring it might perk you up.”

  “Consider me perked.”

  She went with him into the kitchen.

  “So, how are you feeling?” she asked. “That was a nasty gash he gave you.”

  “It’s not so bad.” As if calling his bluff, the wound burned him with pain when he reached into a high cupboard for wineglasses. He grimaced.

  Joan put a hand on his shoulder. “You’d better take it easy, pal.”

  “I wonder how the others are doing.”

  “I just stopped by at the hospital.” Joan took the glasses from him and headed for the living room. “It was touch and go with Willis for a while, but he’s going to make it. They think they saved the kid’s ear. It’s a bit mangled, but it’s back on his head.”

  “Thanks to your lightning foot,” Dave said, not even trying to keep his admiration out of his voice. “You destroyed that guy.”

  Joan looked around at him. A corner of her mouth was tipped crooked. “That’s what the doctors think too.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “He still hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  “Is he going to?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Hey, it’s his tough luck. Come on, let’s drink. Sit down.”

  Dave lowered himself carefully onto the sofa. Leaning back against its soft cushion, he watched Joan peel the foil off one of the bottles. “The cork isn’t plastic,” he said. “Must be good stuff.”

  “Safeway’s best.” She removed the wire hood and dropped it onto the table. Clamping the bottle against her side, she began to twist the cork out. “Any heirloom pottery you’d like me to target?”

  “Just don’t hit me.”

  With a loud pwomp, the cork shot across the room and landed in a rocking chair. A wisp of white vapor curled out of the bottle’s mouth, but foam didn’t gush out.

  “Nice job,” Dave said.

  Joan filled the glasses. She handed one to Dave, took one for herself, and sat down beside him. “Here’s to quick reflexes and narrow escapes,” she toasted.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  They clinked the rims of their glasses and drank. “Real good,” Dave said.

  “I nearly picked up a six-pack instead, but I figured, what the hey. Isn’t every day we get a chance to subdue a pair of knife-wielding bad-ass cruds. Calls for a celebration.”

  “That it does. How’s my guy?”

  “His arm’ll be good as new by the time he leaves prison. That’s maybe ten years down the road—assuming Willis doesn’t succumb.”

  “He’s not a juvie?”

  Joan wiggled her eyebrows. “Nineteen.”

  “Great. How old’s his buddy?”

  Her cheery look slipped a bit. “Same. Not that it matters much. I don’t see a trial in his future.”

  “He’ll be all right.”

  Joan shrugged, forced a smile, and took ano
ther sip of champagne. “His name’s Woodrow. Would you believe it? Woodrow Abernathy. A name like that, he’s trotting around with a purple broom on his head like some kind of a freak out of Mad Max. Did you see him stick that kid’s ear in his mouth?”

  Dave nodded. He watched Joan’s eyes. Her eyes usually seemed confident, somewhat amused. Now they looked a little frantic. He saw confusion in them, and pain and fear.

  “I mean, if Woodrow was hungry, he could’ve had a hot dog.”

  “You did the right thing,” Dave said. He patted her thigh, meaning only to comfort her, but the smooth feel of her skin sent a sudden surge of heat through him. He brought his hand back quickly and rested it on his own leg. “The creep knew what he was doing.”

  “My first kick did the job.”

  “He was still armed.”

  “I could’ve taken the knife away. I didn’t have to demolish him.” She finished the champagne in her glass, filled the glass again, and topped off Dave’s. “I shouldn’t have done it,” she muttered.

  “He’ll probably be all right. If he’s not, you can figure you saved somebody down the road. His next victim…victims.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been telling myself that. Shit.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve ever hurt someone?”

  “Broke a guy’s collarbone last year. Stopped him for speeding and he threw a punch at me. Hardly in the same category as scrambling a kid’s brains.”

  “Comes with the territory,” Dave said. “I killed a guy once. Back when I was LAPD. A drug bust. The guy sprayed a Mac 10 in my direction.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Wonderful thing about those weapons, you have ’em on full auto and they spit themselves empty in about two seconds. The bastard really filled the air with lead, but he ran clean out of ammo about the time he’d worked the spray in my direction. While he tried to change magazines, I put four rounds in his chest,”

  “Jesus,” she said again.

  “It was a pretty clear case of him-or-me, don’t you think?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “The guy was scum. He’d spent half his life behind bars: a few years here for assault with a deadly weapon…a few years there for rape…a few more for armed robbery. At age eighteen he was out long enough to blow away a creep who stiffed him in a coke deal, but the search warrant didn’t hold up, so the charges were dropped.”