Ten minutes later the young man was looking reasonably normal. All muddy and soaked with sweat, but not a bad looking kid. Styles leaned against the rock, smoking an unfiltered Camel.
"Hi," said the showman.
The boy said nothing.
"You got a name?"
"M-Malcolm."
"Mind telling me how you do that, Malcolm?"
"Do what?"
"Make yourself go all hairy and fierce looking like you just did."
Malcolm stared at Bateman Styles. He was silent for a minute as he seemed to make up his mind about something. Finally he said, "I don't do it on purpose. It just... happens. Sometimes I can control it."
"Anything special that makes it happen?"
"When something makes me feel really sad. Or really mad. Then... things happen to me."
"No kidding. What makes you mad, Malcolm?"
"I don't know. Lots of things."
"How about being in a cage with people standing around looking at you, pointing, saying things about you?"
The moment he said 'cage' Styles knew he'd hit it. The boy's eyes deepened to a dangerous shade of green, and his lips pulled away from his teeth like an animal. Then he got hold of himself.
"Yeah," Malcolm said. "That would make me mad."
Bateman Styles drew in deeply on his cigarette, coughed, and said, "You want a job?"
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Bateman Styles leaned back from the fold-down table and lit up a Camel. He coughed. He watched as the boy Malcolm shoveled 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 Flamo 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 Flamo either." Styles was silent for a long minute. He closed his eyes, laid his head back, pursed his lips, and passed a hand over the wisps of gray 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 of 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' 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 the next 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 aluminum door.
The little owner was wearing yellow pajamas and a cutoff 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 milk bottles 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 adiós."
"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."
"Good night, 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?"