Mercer paused beside Linda’s chair. He didn’t bother to keep his voice down, every word carrying easily. “I thought you understood our relationship, Holt. In any case I will clarify it now.”
“But I—” Holt started to say.
“You work for me as front talker,” Mercer swept on. “And that is the extent to which you are involved with my wife and me. Do I make myself clear?”
“No, you don’t,” Holt blustered. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
Mercer’s gaze was level. “I think you do. I think you know very well. There is a line which you do not step over. If you do, I will find myself another front talker.”
Holt’s show of indignation crumpled under Mercer’s penetrating stare, and he looked down at his coffee cup.
Mercer held out his hand. He said imperiously, “Come, my dear.”
Linda got up without looking at Holt and went out with her husband, Juval dancing at their heels. Holt sat staring down into his cup. Then he looked up, gaze sweeping the tent as if daring anyone to even look crosseyed. He got to his feet and stomped out.
“You think somethin’s going on between those two, Dave?” Kay asked. “Gil Holt and Linda, I mean?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Linda’s an idiot, if she’s fooling around. But then—”
“But then something’s always going on with carnies. Right, Dave?”
I changed the subject. “How about a movie, Kay? There’s a good one showing in town.”
“You’re sure you can leave the carnie for that long?” Then she relented, reaching over to touch my hand. “That sounds fine, darling. Soon as I close up the register.”
The crowd was gathering around the ten-in-one the next night as I walked up. Gil Holt was beginning his last bally pitch of the night. Juval was on the platform, banging on an iron wheel with a hammer and, capering on his short legs. Gil Holt, sporty in a bright shirt and dove-colored slacks, marched up and down, chanting into a small microphone cupped in his hand.
“Hi, lookee! Everybody down this way, folks! This is where the freaks are! The strange, the unusual, the weird, the unbelievable! Gather down in close for a free show!”
Holt motioned, and a parade of freaks filed up the short steps and lined up on the bally platform. Ikey, the Tattooed Man, wearing only a loin cloth, every inch of his exposed body, excepting his face, covered with tattoos. Flowers, ships, miniature landscapes, panels of comic strip characters. He flexed a bicep, and a naked woman performed a rippling dance.
Next the Crucified Man, who had small holes bored through his hands. With a hose he shot jets of water through the holes, while the growing crowd stretched, craning necks, and oohed and aahed. Next came Fumo, a tall man in a flaming-red Satan suit complete with horns, carrying two blazing torches. He tilted his head far back, rammed a torch down his throat until it seemed to go out, then removed it and leaned toward the audience, breathing flames like a dragon of olden times.
Gil Holt gestured grandly. “That’s enough! After all, we’re here to make money. We can’t show all our wonders for free, now can we?” He chuckled companionably. “What you see before your very eyes, ladies and gentlemen, is only a small sample of what goes on inside the tent.”
He wheeled and pointed a dramatic finger at the big center banner stretched across the entrance of the tent. The banner depicted the buried casket with Carl Mercer in it, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest. Across the top of the banner were huge letters: BURIED ALIVE!
“This is our main attraction, ladies and gentlemen,” Holt said smoothly. “You have to see it to believe it! This man was breathing, eating, living, only short hours ago. Now he is, for all practical purposes, dead. He is not breathing, his heart is not beating. Yet, less than one hour from now, he will return to the land of the living! You have to see it with your own eyes to believe it. So step right up and buy your tickets! No waiting, ho delay, the show never stops. It’s going on inside right this very minute!”
With a flourish of his hand Gil Holt sent the performers hurrying from the platform and into the tent. Juval gave the wheel a final clang and scampered down the steps. I saw him duck under the bally platform. I knew he wouldn’t come out again until time to get Mercer out. I fired a cigar and watched for a few minutes as people lined up at the ticket-box. They would have a full tent.
I strolled on up the midway, checking on other shows and the rides. A minor crisis held me up at the merry-go-round where a child had fallen off a horse. He wasn’t hurt badly, but I had to see that he got medical attention and examined by a doctor. His parents were grateful he wasn’t hurt, but I knew from past, sad experience that they could change their minds later and launch a massive law suit.
Consequently it was quite late when I approached the freak tent again. The front was dark, the banners rolled up for the night. It was long past time for Mercer to be out. I started to walk on.
Something made me hesitate, then turn into the tent. It was deserted. I let my glance sweep the empty tent and started to turn back out. Then I stopped short. There was something wrong.
A second glance told me what it was. There was no mound of dirt, no casket in sight. I hurried over to the pit.
Mercer was still sealed in the casket. His eyes were wide and staring sightlessly, his face frozen in a horrible grimace of death. One of his hands was up by his face. The nails were torn and bleeding.
I could readily see what had happened. He had come out of the trance; there had been no one around to get him out, and he had scrabbled and torn at the coffin lid until the air was all gone, and he had died of asphyxiation.
But where was Juval?
I hurried out of the tent — there was nothing anyone could do now for Carl Mercer — and to the bally platform. I raised the canvas. Juval was sprawled on his back on the blanket, his mouth open and snoring. I shook him, but he was out cold. I leaned down and sniffed. There was no odor of alcohol. It made no sense, no sense at all. There were several empty pop bottles near him. I collected the whole lot and stashed them out of sight in the ticket box.
Two hours later, we were all in the tent, gathered around the open pit. Several of the carnies had dug down, opened the casket and removed Mercer’s body. The police had come and gone, taking the body with them.
Just before the police came, Juval had stumbled into the tent. He had rushed to Mercer, a muted cry of anguish coming from him. Then he had scurried to the pit, looked down at the empty casket, and gazed around at the accusing faces, his small black eyes pleading dumbly for an explanation.
The police had interrogated everyone without getting any pertinent answers. They had tried to interrogate Juval, without any success whatsoever. They had held out little hope they would arrive at any solution, leaving the impression they didn’t really care very much. After all this was a carnival; everyone knew carnival people were strange, addicted to weird doings, and here today, gone tomorrow. I was certain they would eventually label it accidental death.
As they took Mercer’s body out, Juval had tried to go along, and had to be forcibly restrained.
Now Juval stood at the edge of the pit, gazing down into it, his tiny figure hunched in voiceless grief, as though he expected the nightly miracle to recur and Mercer would rise once again from the dead.
I had questioned Gil Holt and Linda without learning anything. Gil Holt seemed smug, self-satisfied. I had a strong hunch that he was somehow responsible. But I had no proof and saw no chance of getting any. My thought was that he had slipped something into one of Juval’s pop bottles, probably sleeping pills. I had told my suspicions to the officer in charge of the investigation, without naming names. He had ordered all the bottles collected and taken downtown for an examination. Yet I was doubtful of any fruitful results. If Holt had doped Juval’s drink, he could easily have disposed of the bottle afterward. He’d have been stupid not to.