“You wheel-of-fortune men, keep your bellies away from them brakes and lever boards. You skin anybody and you’ll spend the next six months in jail. That goes for you hoopla and ring-the-cane fellers too.”
The grifters exchanged looks but said nothing. They were wondering just how much they would have to shave to stay on the right side. The Sheriff was pleased with the effect of his speech on everybody except the fortuneteller. The hot impudence and contempt in the man’s eyes irritated him. He said:
“You Swami there, or whatever your name is. I don’t know that I’m a-gonna let you work.”
The old man regarded him unblinkingly and said out of the side of his tobacco-stained mouth, “Why? What’s the matter with me?”
“You’re a faker. You can’t read no minds and you can’t predict no future. Let’s see you predict mine, if you can.”
Nick said, “Cough up first, you the same as anybody else.” The Sheriff reached into his jeans and flung a two-bit piece to the fortuneteller, who pocketed it and snarled, “You want a prediction, eh? Couple a months from now you won’t be Sheriff any more.”
There was a roar of laughter from the assembled carnival men.
The Sheriff’s eyes hardened. “Is that right? What makes you think so?”
With an election coming off in November, it was a good fifty-fifty chance and maybe better, Nick knew. He had spent the previous day in Thackerville lounging around the barber shop, the bars, and the general store listening to gossip and picking up stray bits of information which might come in handy. Now he replied, “You got a hangin’ comin’ off next week. How do you know you’re stririgin’ the right feller?”
The Sheriff flushed red and stood silent for a moment on the bandstand. “You watch yourselves,” was all he said finally. He climbed down and strode away, shouldering roughly through the carnival men. Nick merely spat again.
The whole town, Nick had found out, was still on edge over the murder a month ago of the widow Booth, discovered in the kitchen of her farm with her head beaten in with a poker, and over the scheduled execution of Erd Wayne, her hired man, who had been found wandering half dazed about the kitchen with the murder weapon in his hand and blood on his clothes.
Wayne had been tried and found guilty when banker Samuel Chinter had supplied evidence for the motive, testifying that he had refused Wayne the loan of $1,500 to buy the Coulter farm that was up for sale. There had long been rumors that the widow kept that amount, her late husband’s insurance, in the house in cash. But, testified banker Chinter, the widow actually kept her money in the bank and so the murderer would have got no more than a few dollars for his crime. Wayne’s defense had been lame. He had been about to enter the kitchen for supper, he had said, when he was struck from behind and remembered nothing more.
It was, as the Sheriff had said, an open-and-shut case, and it had been conducted vigorously by the county prosecutor who hoped to reach the state legislature via the conviction, in spite of the fact that a lot of people had liked Erd Wayne. Some said he wanted the farm so that he could ask June Purvey to marry him but was not the kind to stoop to murder to get it. Still, the evidence seemed conclusive and sometimes fellows in love lost their heads. One never knew...
“Hayseeds,” muttered Nick Jack-son, eyeing the teeming midway from the entrance to his booth. He wore a soiled wrapper now, with stars and moons sewn onto it, and a turban with shaving-brush bristles and a ten-cent-store diamond stuck in the front of it.
He gave readings automatically. “A dark man is coming into your life... You have been worried lately, but things will get better... Beware of a blonde woman... You are a sensitive type misunderstood by your family.”
The curtains to the booth parted admitting the next customer, a young girl in a white cotton frock tied with a blue sash. Her dark hair, worn long, was gathered together in the back by a ribbon of the same color. She was 18, shy, nervous, frightened. But what startled the fortuneteller the most as his shrewd eyes analyzed her, missing nothing, was her innocence.
“Are you Mirza Baba?” she asked.
“Yup!”
“Can I have a reading?”
“Two bits.”
She opened her purse. He always made them pay first. A glance into pocketbooks yielded valuable clues. He saw the snapshot of the young man in an open-neck shirt. She handed him a quarter.
“You are worried about someone near and dear to you.” A safe opening — her nervousness, the snapshot...
Her dark eyes opened wide and she stared at him amazed. Tears formed in them. “I’m June Purvey,” she said.
“I knew that,” the old man lied. He scrutinized her with renewed interest. Hers was a simple, dewy beauty the contemplation of which unaccountably made his heart ache. Unaccustomed to emotion and pain, he suddenly turned savage and said harshly. “They’re a-goin’ to hang your man...”
The girl gave a low cry of despair, put her head down on the table, and sobbed uncontrollably. Nick was used to clients dissolving into tears when he sometimes prodded them on the raw or guessed their secrets. Yet the grief of this child touched him.
He hedged, “...unless something happens to prevent it.”
The girl lifted her tear-lined face and clutched miserably at the straw. “Oh please, Mr. Baba, help me. Please. He didn’t do it. Look here — you can see he didn’t do it.” She opened her purse and presented the photograph.
The odd thing was that at that moment, with the snapshot in his grimy fingers, Nick would have bet that Erd Wayne was innocent. His profession had trained him to read faces instantly. Life in a sordid world more black than white had taught him all the telltale marks left by greed, viciousness, hatred, and malice. The face of the man in the picture was frank, open, and honest.
“That’s right,” he agreed, “he didn’t do it. I can see that.”
“Then won’t you help him, please, Mr. Baba? I’ll pay you. I’ve brought money...” She opened her purse again and produced a roll of bills that made the old man’s eyes light up with cupidity.
“It’s eighty-five dollars that I’ve saved. But I would pay you more — anything you wanted. I could send you some every week. I work at Pete’s dry goods store.”
“You Erd’s girl?” Nick asked.
June shook her head. “No...” And then added, “He ain’t spoken yet.”
“What you doin’ this for then?”
“Because I love him.”
Nick was unable to understand the depth or simplicity of her reply. To him love was desire. He said, “Supposing he was to get off and go sparkin’ someone else, hey?”
June regarded him miserably for a moment, then replied fiercely, “I wouldn’t care, long as he was alive!” She pushed the money toward him. “You could find out the truth,” she said. “You can read their minds. Nobody can hide anything from you. If the murderer came here you’d know.”
“Yup, I’d know.”
“Then take it.” She indicated the bills.
Nick said, “Gimme half. You can pay the rest when I find something out.” He counted out 40 dollars and then added the odd five-dollar bill. He had no compunction at taking her money. This was how he earned his living, separating the gullible from their cash. It surprised him, though, that he had not taken it all. He said, “I’ll keep my inner eye peeled. Don’t say nothing to nobody. You can come back tomorrow.”
She got up to go. Her eyes were filled with trust and relief. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Baba. God bless you!”
He watched her go, suddenly filled with a strange, angry desire to free hired man Wayne.
Nick Jackson was what was known as a cold reader. With no props such as cards or crystal ball, he sat at a table and dissected his clients, probed them for their weakness and hidden troubles. He employed a combination of ready patter, shrewed observation, knowledge of human nature and evil, and the natural desire of his victims to talk.