by Bob Wade
“Fifteen cents,” the woman wheezed, her voice touched with acid. “Just like the sign says.”
Thursday shoved a dollar bill through the grill. “One.”
The only likely people came up behind him, a man in a brown leather jacket and a redhead girl in slacks. They were haggling about something to do but neither voice matched the frightened tones on the telephone.
The fat ticket woman eyed him suspiciously as he lingered over his change. “Anything wrong, mister?”
“My name is Thursday. Anybody leave a message for me here?” He watched her doughy circle of face. “It’s nine-thirty.”
The face stayed as blank as before, then a scowl began creeping in from the edges. “What you trying to pull, huh?”
Thursday shrugged and turned away. The couple behind him stopped their waspish conversation and moved up to the window. The man, frowning distastefully, said, “Two, I guess.”
There was a youth in a yellow shirt by the gate. Thursday gave him his ticket, got a stub back, and walked up the short ramp to enter the metal cylinder.
“By yourself?” the attendant asked. Without waiting for an answer, he began a mumbled speech about holding onto the metal bar and keeping the safety belt buckled at all times.
The cab jolted as the man and his girl in slacks got into the rear half and sat down, their backs to Thursday. The girl was whispering insistently, “Now quit beefing, George. It’s gonna be fun.” The man kept icily silent.
The yellow shirt slammed the heavy wire door and bolted it. Then he ambled down the ramp to where an electrical control box crowned an iron post. Without looking at the Loop-o-plane, he pulled the big toggle switch.
The great metal arm stirred, creaked and began to swing slowly back and forth, pendulum-fashion. Thursday planted his feet solidly against the curved floor and waited for something to happen. Nothing did except that the machine picked up more speed. It lunged higher and higher, a giant swing, each back and forth movement cutting a greater arc toward the black sky.
Thursday snorted derisively. He’d might as well relax and get his fifteen cents’ worth. The call had been a gag.
At the top of the forward swing there was nothing but night and stinging air in his eyes. On the sickening swoop back, Thursday could see the Front Street entrance to Joyland, a dumpy girl seated in the Guess-Your-Weight scales, and the rear end of the tunnel-like penny arcade, all through a cross-hatch of wires and tired pennants.
Another swing.
A pair of marines were matching coins as they swaggered out of the arcade. The dumpy girl bounded down the steps from the scales, a cane clutched in one hand.
The bullet-shaped cab shot forward in a rush. The redhead behind Thursday let out a shriek of happy terror. This time time the arm didn’t swing back. The cab hovered upside down at the top of the circle and then slid agonizingly over the brink into nothingness. As they rocketed down, the littered asphalt and the colored lights and the tar-paper roofs of the concessions merged in a gaudy blur.
Thursday took off his hat and crammed it between his legs. At the slow top of the second loop, he scanned the haphazard pattern of things forty feet below. It seemed farther, hanging upside down by a safety belt and a metal bar. He looked across B Street, near where he had parked his car, and loitered in the shadows. A slight man in a blue sweater was hurrying along the sidewalk. There was no traffic in sight but the man was glancing behind him nervously and then over at the Joyland concessions.
The cab nosed over for a second dive. The redhead in the other compartment had begun a series of short moans which rose to a crescendo as the Loop-o-plane dove for earth.
At the top of the next loop, the man in the blue sweater was cutting across the street in a half-trot. He was heading for the Joyland entrance. Or the Oriental Bazaar or the crossbow gallery or the tattoo studio. Thursday couldn’t decide which. He wondered why he was wondering as he fell through space again.
The yellow-shirted attendant sadistically stopped the machine at the height of its next dizzying circle, letting the passengers dangle upside down while the bullet teetered uncertainly on its steel arm. The unseen girl behind Thursday was screaming, “Let me down! Let me down!”
The sound of a shot slashed sharply through the playful scream and the crash of bumpers in the scooter pavilion. Thursday twisted his body against the safety belt, trying to give the noise a source.
He caught a glimpse of the blue sweater. The little man was poised hesitantly on the curb on the Joyland side of B Street. He bent over as if he were about to sprint. Then the Loop-o-plane lost its precarious balance and whirled madly down its ordained circle.
The cab slowed on the ascent again and Thursday looked for the blue sweater shape. The little figure was easy to find. He hadn’t gone much farther, just a few steps toward the crossbow range. People were running toward him. His body pressed face down on the sidewalk and one arm stuck out rigidly, pointing at the entrance of Joyland.
That was all Thursday saw before the Loop-o-plane ground over the incline and plunged down again. The redhead was laughing and screaming for somebody to stop the machine.
Thursday added his own shout to the carnival racket. But he had seen the yellow-shirted attendant galloping toward the crowd clustering closely around the still figure on the sidewalk.
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Copyright © 1947 by Robert Wade and Bill Miller, Registration Renewed 1974
Registered under the original title, Pop Goes The Queen
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4025-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4025-7