The Forgotten Man

by Robert Crais

  Tina rolled her eyes, and waved him away.

  "Oh, go on, go! You wanna see him so bad you gonna pee yourself."

  Elvis sprinted down the midway and pushed through the crowd. More than a thousand people had already gathered and the show had begun. The Human Fireball stood atop the upraised cannon with a microphone in his hand.

  Eddie Pulaski looked nine feet tall in a white leather jumpsuit festooned with red and blue stars. He had shadowed eyes, flowing black hair combed back over his skull, and shoulders at least three feet wide! He gestured broadly to the crowd with wide sweeps of his arm, explaining that the cannon was charged with high explosives, enough to bring down a small skyscraper, enough to hurl him high over the midway into the far net.

  The crowd oo-ed and ah-ed.

  And if that wasn't enough, Eddie exclaimed, he would be doused with gasoline and burst into flame, hurling through the sky like a blazing fireball!

  The crowd oo-ed and ah-ed again, but then Eddie raised his hands for silence. Only questions remained:

  Would he land safely in the net, or would a stray breeze blow him off course?

  Would the explosive charge be too much or too little?

  Would he fly fast enough to snuff the blazing flames or would he burn alive in the far net?

  There was only one way to find out!!!

  Elvis pushed forward to get closer, shoving past men who cursed and boys who hit him.

  Eddie tossed the microphone to an assistant, another assistant splashed him with a bucket of liquid, and Eddie hoisted himself into the cannon without another word.

  The crowd fell silent.

  Elvis Cole's heart pounded.

  The assistant counted down through the microphone: ten!.... nine!... eight!.. .

  The crowd counted with him, their voices a thundering chant.

  The second assistant lit a ring of flames around the mouth of the cannon.

  ... three!... two!... one!...

  The Human Fireball thundered from the cannon in a whoosh of white smoke. He burst into flames as he passed through the ring of fire and arced into the night. Long flames trailed behind him, blowing out as he reached the peak of his flight, and then he landed safely in the net. Eddie Pulaski bounced to his feet as the crowd cheered. He raised his hands to the applause as if he were the King of the Universe, asked the crowd to tell their friends—Last show tomorrow night, friends!— then he gripped the edge of the net, swung down, and was gone.

  His father was gone.

  Elvis shouldered between milling bodies and slipped between the canvas banners into the darkness behind the midway, desperate to catch the man. His heart thundered and his ears hummed. He ran as hard as he could to catch up, and rounded a truck just as Eddie Pulaski climbed into a long blue trailer. The trailer door shut. Elvis told himself to keep moving, to pound on that door, to show Eddie Pulaski the picture of his mother, you remember her don't you, fourteen years ago? He had come so far and wanted it so much, but his feet did not move. Elvis ached deep in his center, an ache so sharp and terrible that he knew he could not stand to ache more.

  Elvis stared at the closed door of the trailer, then turned and walked away.

  Now that Elvis knew where Pulaski lived, he soaked up bits of the man's life: the white Ford pickup parked near the trailer; a small charcoal grill standing cold outside the trailer door; two empty beer cans standing upright in the grass. Elvis slipped past the truck to peek inside, seeing the ashtray overflowing with butts, a roll of duct tape on the bench seat, and a shrunken head dangling from the mirror. Elvis drank the details as if each was a missing piece to the puzzle of his life. He took out his mother's picture and held it up, showing her face to the truck and trailer and grill.

  "This is where he lives. This is him."

  Elvis paced the midway most of the night, anxious and sick. He returned to Eddie's trailer again and again, circling it like a dog afraid to go home. When he finally tried to sleep, he couldn't, and he let himself out of Tina's mobile home while she slept.

  The midway was quiet that morning except for the kitchen crew and the carny who walked the three-eyed cow. Elvis returned to Pulaski's mobile home, but it was still quiet. He slipped between the tents and went to the cannon. It had been lowered and pushed beneath the banners. Elvis climbed onto the flatbed and ran his hand along the barrel. He peered into the muzzle.

  "Get the hell down from there!"

  The Human Fireball was glaring up at him, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a cigarette dangling from his lip. He was wearing a thin cloth robe over shorts, an undershirt, and unlaced shoes.

  "C'mon, kid, get down or I'll have Security on your ass."

  Elvis jumped to the ground.

  Eddie Pulaski was shorter than he seemed last night. His hair was thin and pockmarks cut his jaw.

  "I was just looking. I work for Tina Sanchez. Wiping the balls, you know? And stacking the targets."

  The Fireball squinted, then nodded.

  "I guess I seen you."

  Elvis shivered, but not with the morning cold. He was certain that Eddie Pulaski recognized him, maybe not clearly, and maybe not well, but with some deep part of himself that remembered one of his own.

  The Fireball sucked off his cigarette, then hacked up phlegm and swallowed it.

  "Either way, you bein' new, lemme set you straight about somethin'. Don't mess with my stuff. Everyone on the 'way knows not to mess with my stuff. My ass depends on this gear, so I can't have anyone fuckin' around with it."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't touch anything."

  "Forget it, just so you mind. You see the show last night?"

  "You were amazing."

  The Fireball placed his coffee on the flatbed, then hoisted himself up. He didn't look happy.

  "I just fixed the fucker, but I didn't like the way it sounded last night, made this funny poppin' noise when it let go. You don't wanna hear shit pop when you do what I do for a livin'. C'mon up, you want. I'm gonna open her."

  Elvis pushed himself onto the flatbed as if he were weightless. He felt electric with energy as he followed after Pulaski. He wanted to hear every word the man spoke; he wanted to drink in everything he was willing to teach, just as a son learns from his father.

  Pulaski twisted a row of catches along the cannon's housing and let down its side. Elvis was surprised by what he saw: The cannon barrel didn't fill the housing; a heavy steel spring with coils as thick as his wrists ran on steel rails where the barrel should be. Chains stretched along the springs down into gears and pulleys and what looked like heavy electric motors.

  Elvis said, "I thought it was a cannon."

  Eddie took a deep drag on his cigarette, flicked the butt away, then went to work tinkering in the motor.

  "Use your fuckin' head. A man can't shoot himself out a real cannon; the g-force would bust your spine, and the barrel pressure would scramble your brain. It's a catapult. The smoke and other stuff is shit for the marks."

  Elvis felt disappointed, but somehow thrilled, too, and the mix left him confused. He didn't like it that Eddie Pulaski was a liar, but Eddie was also sharing secrets exactly the way a father would share with his son. Elvis suddenly pulled out the photograph of his mother, and held it up.

  "You're my father."

  The Fireball twisted around. His eyes went to the picture.

  "This is my mother."

  "Did you say what I think you did?"

  "My father was a human cannonball. My name used to be Jimmie, but she changed it to Elvis so it would be like your name, just like your name but not, you see how they both begin with an E? You see how they have five letters?"

  The Fireball stepped back from the cannon and shook his head once.

  The words spilled out. They had been building for fourteen years.

  Elvis said, "I look just like you, don't I? She didn't name me Eddie because she still keeps the secret. She never told anyone about you, and she never will. Look at the picture. You see my mom?"


  Pulaski's eyes softened in a way more frightening than if they had blazed with hatred.

  "I've been looking for you all of my life. I had to find you. I found you."

  Pulaski stared across the midway, then glanced back. Elvis was desperate to hear how Pulaski and his mother met and how much they meant to each other and that Pulaski missed her and had always wanted a son, but Pulaski didn't say those things. His voice was gentle.

  "Kid, listen, I never met your mother. Look at me. We don't look anything alike. I'm not the guy you've been looking for. I'm not your father."

  The Fireball's face filled with pity, which hurt more than a slap.

  "My father is a human cannonball."

  Pulaski shook his head.

  "I worked shrimp boats out of Corpus Christi fifteen years ago. I've only done this eight years."

  "You're him."

  "I'm not."

  Elvis felt as if he was floating in soft gray fuzz. He looked at the cannon that wasn't a cannon. He looked at Pulaski, with his thin upper body and thick legs, his thin wiry hair and stubby fingers. They looked nothing alike. Nothing.

  "You're a fake. Everything about you is fake."

  Elvis felt the tears run down his face. He wanted to run, but his feet didn't move. He shouted as loudly as he could, shouted because he wanted everyone on the midway to hear.

  "FAKE! THAT'S NOT A CANNON! IT'S A SPRING!"

  Pulaski didn't grow angry. He only looked sad.

  "C'mon, kid."

  "HE'S A LIAR! NOTHING HERE IS REAL!"

  Pulaski hugged him close, wrapping his arms around him tight, but never once raising his voice.

  "Stop it, boy. I'm not your old man. I'm nobody's old man."

  "YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A LIE!"

  Pulaski held tight, and Elvis wanted to be held; he wanted to hold on forever, but then it all seemed wrong and he pushed Pulaski away, and ran without thinking. He jumped from the flatbed and ran as hard as he could, seeing nothing through the diamonds in his eyes, just colored light that shimmered and moved like the made-up fantasy of a rainbow; he ran past Tina Sanchez's trailer and the still-sleeping skeletons of the thrill rides; he ran until he fell to the ground, hating everything and everyone in the world, and himself most of all.

  Father Knows Best

  Wilson followed Jacob Lenz to a small Airstream set up behind the midway. It was polished and bright, speaking well of the owner. The door was propped open for the air.

  Lenz rapped at the door, then went inside. Wilson stepped up behind him, blocking the door with his body so the boy couldn't get out.

  Lenz said, "Tina? A man is here for the boy."

  The kid was sitting on a couch with a short, dark woman who had probably been good-looking in her day. The kid recognized Wilson right away, and didn't seem surprised.

  "Hi, Mr. Wilson."

  "Hiya, bud. You're a lot taller now."

  Lenz seemed surprised.

  "You know each other?"

  Wilson said, "Oh, yeah, we've done this a few times."

  Wilson thanked Mrs. Sanchez for giving the boy a roof then assured Lenz for the tenth time that the family did not want trouble and would not call the police. The old lady hugged the boy, and wiped at her tears. She seemed like a nice old gal. When Wilson shook her hand she damned near crushed his bones.

  The boy didn't try to run. He had bolted the first couple of times Wilson bagged him, but now he seemed resigned. In a way that Wilson didn't expect, this left him feeling sad. They walked back to Wilson's car without incident, then began the long drive home.

  "You hungry?"

  "Uh-uh."

  "It's a long drive, five hours maybe."

  "I'm good."

  They drove in silence for more than an hour, and Wilson was fine with that. The boy was exhausted. He sat slumped against the door, staring out the window with an empty expression.

  Having collected the kid three times, Wilson had gotten to know him a little bit. Wilson felt sorry for him, sure, but he also found himself liking the boy. His absentee mother was nuts, his grandfather was a stiff who clearly didn't want the boy, and they rarely lived in one place more than a couple of months, yet here he was shagging ass all over creation, chasing after shadows. He just wouldn't quit, which was both terrible and admirable at the same time. Wilson—he finally admitted to himself—was getting attached.

  "How many times is this, four, five?"

  The boy didn't answer.

  "This is the third time I snagged you, and before me was that other guy. How many times have you gone chasing after a carnival?"

  "I don't know. Six. I guess this makes six. No, seven."

  "Seven different human cannonballs."

  The boy didn't answer.

  "You have a knack for this, I gotta give you that. Here you are, a kid, and you track these bastards down like a professional. You'd make a helluva detective."

  The kid's eyes glazed and he returned to staring out the window. Wilson drove another few miles in silence, trying to figure out what to say. He didn't like interfering in people's lives beyond what he was hired for, but someone needed to straighten out this kid, and no one seemed willing to do it.

  Finally Wilson dove in.

  "I want to tell you something maybe I shouldn't tell you. I shouldn't interfere with what goes on in your house, but, Jesus, seven times. Somebody's gotta set you straight."

  The boy glanced at him, then turned back to the window. Now came the hard part, but Wilson had started it so he would finish it.

  "Everything your mother told you about your father being a human cannonball is bullshit. She made it up."

  The boy's face turned dark and hard, but he didn't say anything. He was a sharp kid. Down deep, he probably knew it was bullshit.

  "Do you know where your mom goes when she disappears?"

  The hardness dropped from the boy's face like fog hiding from the sun. He stared at Wilson with wide, expectant eyes.

  "How do you know she goes away?"

  Wilson let his voice soften.

  "Here your grandfather hires me to find you, you think he never hired me to find your mother?"

  Wilson felt a last reluctant pang, but this boy needed to know; the kid needed to know what was real and what wasn't because no one else in his life did or cared.

  "She's got what's called a delusional disorder. Whenever she feels, I don't know, 'overwhelmed' is what they call it, she can't tell what's real and what isn't, so she runs away. Your father isn't a human cannonball. She might think he is, but she believes it because she imagined it, and she can't tell the difference. She's not lying to you. She just doesn't know what's real."

  Wilson glanced over. The boy was facing forward, staring at the coming highway, as stiff as a fence post in the wind. Wilson felt bad, but he was just trying to help.

  "Look, this isn't my business. I just thought someone should tell you, is all."

  "I don't care. I'm going to find him."

  "Kid, I don't have any doubt you'll find him, but be careful what you wish for. Whoever he is, he won't be anything like you imagine."

  "I don't care."

  "I know you think that now, but once you find him, you can't unfind him. He'll be part of you forever."

  The boy's jaw worked, but his eyes never left the highway ahead.

  "That's what I want."

  Wilson glanced over again.

  Elvis Cole sat quiet as a clam, but now a great sloppy tear spilled down his face. Wilson felt like a heel and was sorry he brought it up. He gripped the wheel and went back to driving. Time was money. He wanted to get rid of the kid and get on with his life.

  PART THREE

  Blood Lines

  17

  Golden called at five minutes after eight the next morning. He probably hadn't been awake that early in years, but he also probably hadn't slept.

  "All right, you bastard, I set it up with the girls. They'll talk to you, but they're scared, like anyone needs this ki
nd of shit in their lives."

  "It's a high-risk profession."

  He told me when and where to see them, and how to contact them if I needed to change the plan. I copied their addresses and phone numbers. I hadn't expected that all three would agree to see me; I guess Stephen had some sway.

  "Okay, Stephen. As soon as I talk to them I'll return the computer."

  "I think you're gonna fuck me up the ass is what I think. What kind of man walks into another man's house and steals his stuff? Like I should trust you?"

  That's what you need at eight in the morning, a pimp assuming the moral high ground.

  "You don't have a choice, Stephen, just like last night."

  "Yeah, well, I got friends, too, you bastard. I want my—"

  I hung up. Beckett would probably hear back from the Feds today, and Pardy would run Faustina's name, but I didn't trust that Pardy would get back to me. If a missing-persons report had been filed on Herbert Faustina, it would show when his name was run and save me a lot of time. I called Starkey.

  "Hey, you wanna do me a favor?"

  "We have a spare desk over here. Why don't you bring your stuff and move in?"

  "Would you run the name Herbert Faustina through the MPRs?"

  I spelled it for her.

  "Faustina your John Doe?"

  "Yeah. I'm not sure that's his real name, but it'll save me a lot of time if you get a hit."

  "You want me to wax your car, too?"

  Everyone is a comedian.

  "Thanks, Carol. I appreciate it."

  An uneasy silence developed before she cleared her throat.

  "Listen—why'd you call me with this? You could've called your pal, Poitras—he's sitting on his fat ass right down the hall here— but you called me. Why is that?"

  Next to Joe Pike, Lou Poitras was my closest friend. He ran the homicide bureau at Hollywood Station, and I was godfather to one of his three children. I didn't understand what she was getting at, but she seemed irritated.