Chapter Nineteen
Bateman Styles leaned back from the fold-down table and lit up a Camel. He coughed. He watched as the boy Malcolm shovelled in the beans and sausage he had heated on the small butane stove. It looked like his grocery bill was going to go up fast, but if the kid could manage that trick he saw today, he'd soon pay for it.
"That was good, Mr Styles," Malcolm said when at last his plate was empty. "Thanks."
" Sure it was enough."
"Well
"It'll have to be," Styles said quickly, "until I can get to the store."
"I wish I could help pay," Malcolm said.
"You will, my boy, you will," Styles said. "However, before we start making permanent arrangements, we'd better go see the boss about taking you on."
"You're not going to ask me to, you know, do it for him, are you?"
"Not if you don't want to, my boy. That act's our bread and butter, and there's no use giving it away, not even to the boss."
"It isn't that I don't want to, Mr Styles, it's just that I can't, like, make it happen just any time."
"I get the picture, lad. You need the stimulus. Anger, despair, some powerful emotion. We'll work that out. By the way, "Mr Styles" makes me nervous. Call me Bate."
Malcolm grinned shyly and nodded.
"What we need now is a name for you."
"I have a name."
"No, no, no. Malcolm definitely does not fill the bill. We need something to draw in the marks. Something to whet the people's appetites for what they are about to see. Like Torcho, the Fire Eater."
"I don't eat fire."
"I know that, boy. I was merely using it as an example. As a matter of fact, it didn't do much for Torcho either." Styles was silent for a long minute. He closed his eyes, lay his head back, pursed his lips and passed a hand over the wisps of grey hair that remained on his scalp. Suddenly his eyes popped open. He smiled broadly, showing brown-stained teeth.
"I've got it. Wolf Boy. Grolo the Wolf Boy." He waited for a reaction.
Malcolm frowned.
"Something wrong?"
After a moment's hesitation Malcolm shook his head. "I don't want to be called that."
"What's the matter with Grolo?"
"That's okay. It's the other part."
"Wolf Boy?"
Malcolm nodded.
"Judas Priest, why not? It's short, descriptive, and has a nice scary ring to it."
"I don't like it." There was a new, cold note in the boy's voice.
"Then we shall discard it," Styles said decisively. He again went into his thinking posture — eyes closed, head back, lips pursed. This time he was out with it in thirty seconds.
"Animal Boy." He studied Malcolm through narrowed eyes. "Can you live with that?"
"I guess so."
"Then it's Grolo the Animal Boy. I don't think it has the same appeal as Wolf Boy — "
Malcolm's eyes darkened.
"But, after all, you are the attraction here, and we'll call you anything you like."
They left Styles's antiquated trailer together and tramped across the dark field toward Jackie Moskowitz's Airstream. The concession stands were up, the tents in place, the small ferris wheel erected, all ready to go at ten tomorrow morning. Some of the attractions like the kootch show and Bateman's tent would not open until evening.
In the back of the food tent the perpetual poker game was in progress. The laughter and good-natured cursing of the carnival hands floated through the clear night. Elsewhere it was quiet. The town of Silverdale, immediately to the north, showed only a sprinkling of lights.
The showman and the boy came to a stop at the owner's blimp-shaped trailer. Styles gave Malcolm a reassuring wink and banged on the aluminium door.
The little owner was wearing yellow pyjamas and a cut-off robe when he opened the door. He looked at Styles and the boy with distaste.
"Jesus, Bateman, is this important? I just took a sleeping pill."
"I told you I'd get a new show."
"Well?"
Styles swept his hand in a grand gesture toward Malcolm.
"I give you Grolo the Animal Boy."
Moskowitz squinted up at them. "Come in here in the light."
Styles urged Malcolm into the trailer, then followed. The showman stood back while Malcolm shifted nervously from foot to foot. Moskowitz walked slowly around the boy, examining him from all angles.
"Animal Boy? What the hell does that mean? He's not a geek, is he?"
Styles was offended. "Jackie, you've known me long enough to know I wouldn't bring you a geek. Grolo here will turn into a raging, roaring, frothing animal before the eager eyes of the paying customers. He will be a sensation."
"Yeah? What's the trick?"
"Jackie, please. Would you ask Houdini how he did his water torture escape?"
"I would if he was looking for work."
"This is by way of a trade secret. Even I do not know how he does it."
"Okay, okay, so don't tell me." Jackie picked up one of Malcolm's hands and examined it. "He don't look much like an animal."
"Not now, he doesn't. Just wait until tomorrow night when there's a tent full of marks waiting to see him."
"I don't know, Bateman. I was thinking of using your space for a baseball pitch. I haven't had one for two years."
"A baseball pitch? Can you imagine people paying more to knock over weighted metal milkbottles than to see a genuine bona-fide animal boy?"
"People like to throw baseballs."
"They like to be scared too. Why do you think horror movies clean up?"
"Well
"Jackie, let me try it for this one week in Silverdale. I'll guarantee you a minimum."
"Guarantee?"
"More than that. If we don't outdraw the kootch show and the Ring-Toss, I'll make up the difference out of my own pocket. And if we bomb, you can leave us here and you're out nothing."
"Are you sober, Bateman?"
Styles held up a right hand. "Not a drop since early this afternoon."
The little man cracked off a huge yawn. "Okay, you got a deal. I want to see this act myself. But remember, if your animal boy is a dog, it's adios."
"Fair enough, Jackie, fair enough."
"Now get out of here and let me get some sleep." He looked up doubtfully at Malcolm. "Uh, so long, Grolo."
"Goodnight, Mr Samson," Malcolm said.
As they walked back across the field together Styles clapped Malcolm on the back. "Congratulations, my boy, you're in show business. This calls for a toast to our future success. Or do you indulge?"
"I don't drink, but you go ahead, Bate."
"Thank you, my boy, thank you. I believe I will. Then perhaps I'll take a stroll over to the kootch girls" trailer. Care to join me in that?"
Malcolm flushed. "Well, I, uh, don't know if I, uh…"
"That's all right. Plenty of time for sport. Probably better for you to get a good night's sleep. I'll fix you up with a blanket roll in the trailer and try not to wake you when I come in."
Malcolm jolted out of a light sleep when Bateman Styles returned to the trailer sometime after midnight. It took a moment to realize where he was, then he closed his eyes and feigned sleep as the showman bumbled about the trailer trying clumsily to be quiet. Soon Styles was in his bed, snoring. Malcolm dozed off again with a tiny contented smile on his lips.
Bateman was up at dawn, apparently none the worse for his night's carouse. He scrambled some eggs and made hash-browns for the two of them, then left Malcolm alone.
The sounds and smells of the carnival as the people started coming in were enticing, but Malcolm stayed in the trailer. He was not yet ready to move among people again.
In mid-afternoon Styles returned looking pleased with himself.
"Good news, boy. At virtually no expense, I have procured a cage," he said. "We can't convince the good people you're dangerous without a cage, now can we?"
He saw Malcolm's expression darken and went on quickly. "It isn't much of a cage, really. It would barely hold a determined pussycat. However, it will do until we can find something more impressive. It was lucky that Clete Matthews still had it from the time he was carrying a chimp act. The thing still smells faintly of chimpanzee, but I daresay we can get used to that, right?"