Opening the door revealed a bright, late August. I scooped up the paper and nodded to the older woman standing in the parking lot across from me. It was then that I realized I hadn’t put any clothes on. Huh. I shut the door behind me (but not before winking at the lady) and, after tossing the paper on a chair, threw on some running clothes. Ten minutes later, I opened the door to find her and several other women standing in the same place. I don’t know what they hoped to see, but clearly my having clothes on had been a bit of a buzz kill. Just for fun I grinned and shouted, “G’day, ladies,” with an Australian accent (something I inherited from Dad). That seemed to do the trick. I believe one actually fainted.
A good jog always helped clear my head. With my Bombay-appointed duty over for the year and the carnival season coming to an end, I had to start making my plans for fall. I was pretty sure it was time for a sabbatical. I needed a break.
Back at the trailer, Sartre squeaked indignantly. I scooped her up as I flipped on the television to listen to while I threw breakfast together. Sartre wiggled in the crook of my left arm before sprawling out luxuriously. I found an orange and made some toast while the little pig ran up and down the table. There wasn’t much on in the news, as usual. I had a gig coming up in rural Nebraska. Just a county fair. Then the season would be over for me. Sartre nibbled on an orange peel, never taking her eyes off me. Huh. It’s sad when your own pet doesn’t entirely trust you. But that’s the nature of an assassin pet owner, I guess. I gave her some of the fruit and she devoured it. An ad for Disney World came on and somehow managed to get my attention.
I clicked off the TV and pulled open my laptop. After a few more hours of research, I decided on my sabbaticaclass="underline" Disney World. I had a few connections there-a couple of my carney brethren who had gone legit. I flipped open my cell phone and dialed. Within moments I had a job lined up from fall to spring. After that, who knew what I’d do? I was unattached. A loner, to be clichéd-but it suited me.
Besides, I already had a career. I had travel, adventure, middle-aged women in the parking lot ogling my physique, and the love of a good, elitist rodent. What else could I possibly need?
Chapter Two
“Women: you can’t live with them, and you can’t get them to dress up in a skimpy Nazi uniform and beat you with a warm squash.”
– EMO PHILIPS
Ah. The Saunders County Fair in Wahoo, Nebraska. The name says it all, doesn’t it? Nothing but dirt, horseshit and fried food as far as the eye can see. Sigh. It’s paradise. I checked the crankshaft on the Tilt-A-Whirl before admitting sticky children and beer-addled adults to the ride. People expect a carney doesn’t really give a damn when he checks the safety bars and pushes the button to start the ride. But they don’t know me. I’m a firm believer in safety first, because I actually like kids. Adults, however, are more complicated.
I grinned through my beard and turned on the ride, watching as the little cars swiveled and swirled. I hadn’t had a barfer in two days, but I figured I was overdue. Sure enough, when the ride came to a stop, some green-faced teen was being led off her car. It didn’t bother me. When you eat five corn dogs with a cottoncandy chaser, then go on a ride that scrambles your insides like eggs, you have to expect a little carnage.
Oh, well. This was my last gig before heading out to Orlando. I’d have to use the solution my brilliant scientist cousin, Missi, gave me to erase the tattoos. I’d miss the beard a bit. Even though I generally lived off the grid, I was still a bit paranoid. The disguise kept me from being recognized, and the customers seemed to expect it. It came with the carney image, and I hated to disappoint anyone. I was so involved in my thoughts it took me a minute to realize the woman standing before me didn’t want a ride-at least, not on the Tilt-A-Whirl.
She looked to be in her mid- to late twenties, with chin-length blonde hair, very little makeup and a slim build. I watched for a moment as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Definitely nervous.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She stuck out her right hand as if she had never shaken hands before. I slowly grasped it in my own and she shook it. I could feel her heart beating in her palm. Must be the beard. It scared even Sartre.
“Um, I’m Veronica Gale.” It looked as though she immediately regretted giving her last name. I took no offense. I was used to such a reaction.
“Hello, Veronica.” I thought it might be rude if I didn’t respond. Of course, I still had no idea why she was standing there, but I thought I should at least make her comfortable. And there was something about her. She wasn’t mysterious; in fact, I could read through her like tissue paper over a large-print picture book.
“I’m finishing up my master’s thesis on transient lifestyles and wondered if I could interview you?” Ms. Gale bit her lip, displaying a lack of confidence that I found a little adorable.
Ah. So that was it. An academic. You don’t see many in this line of work. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the ivory tower.
“Okay.” I stepped past her and admitted more kids to the ride. “I’ve got a break in an hour.”
Veronica jumped back as if she hadn’t noticed the people around her. “Um, fine. I’ll be back in an hour.” She paused for a second, as if her central nervous system had failed her. Finally she turned around and marched off.
Hmmm. A sheltered little thing with no life experience and plenty of attitude. How could I possibly resist? And who was I to stand in the way of a fellow academic and her quest for knowledge?
I checked all the safety bars and switched on the ride. I didn’t really have a break coming up, so I called one of the other guys on duty on my radio. Mort agreed to cover for me in a bit.
I was actually looking forward to talking to Veronica Gale, master’s candidate. I hadn’t had a date in a long time. Sure, carneys have followers-often wealthy housewives with a sexual fetish for tattooed flesh-but a real date? It was too depressing to think about. As I said, I’m a loner, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely for intelligent conversation with a woman. Most of my contact included very little discussion.
Mort showed up less than an hour later. When my “date” arrived a few seconds after, I suggested we hit the beer tent. We bought two drinks and settled at a splinter-riddled picnic table.
Veronica slid her beer to the side and pulled a notebook out of her purse. I smiled. She was starting to grow on me.
“Now, your name is…?” she asked, sounding very official. This chick had to loosen up.
“Coney Bombay.” I watched as she wrote that down. She had beautiful, slender fingers. I like that in a woman. Veronica Gale wasn’t a hottie. She was pretty in an interesting sort of way, with large, questioning green eyes, a classic European nose, a strong chin and dark blonde hair. I found her intriguing. I’d like to think she found me intriguing, but then I remembered her nervousness around me. To her, I was just some sort of hobo who still had all his teeth.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Mr. Bombay.” All friendliness had gone from her voice. This woman was pure business now. At least, that was what she wanted me to think.
“Call me Cy. And no problem. This is the best proposition I’ve had all day.” I smiled, hoping to loosen her up.
It didn’t. Veronica scowled. “Fine. Cy it is. But this is not a proposition.”
“Too bad,” I responded, never taking my eyes off of hers. It unnerved her. Have you ever tried to keep your eyes on the person you are talking to? Americans aren’t used to it. They look away every now and then to fight their unease. Especially when you are a carney. Veronica was no exception.