Hot Night in the City

by Trevanian

  "That was very neighbourly of you, ma'am."

  "Didn't seem to me you was moving around any too frisky. I think your boy'd better give you a hand."

  "I just can't let him do that, ma'am," he muffled through a mouthful of bread and chicken and greens. "It's his heart, you see."

  I set my glass down and pressed my hand against my chest.

  "But don't you worry," Dirty-Shirt continued. "I'll do the work of two men."

  "It ain't often you hear tell of a child with a weak heart," the widow said.

  "That is so true, ma'am. So true. It's a rare congenital form of subacute bacterial endocarditis. But please don't let my doctor talk bamboozle you. The only reason I know the medical term is because... well, I suffer from the malady myself. Have ever since I was a kid. It's hereditary. Thankfully, it ain't a quick killer... so long as you don't tax yourself none."

  "But... how on earth did you ever run a farm with your subacute bactra—what it is?"

  "Slowly, ma'am. Real slowly. And maybe that's why there wasn't enough put aside to care for my Maudie when the fever came and she..." He couldn't finish. I mean he couldn't finish what he was saying. He finished his po'boy and milk just fine. And seconds on the milk. But the widow wouldn't let him finish stacking the wood, no matter how much he begged her not to shame him by treating him like some shiftless bum because he was eager to give a fair day's work for a fair day's— "Is that apple pie I smell?"

  "Happens it is. Like I said, this is baking day."

  "Now you listen to me, ma'am, and don't you dare argue with me!" he said, shaking his finger at her. "There is nothing in this world that could make me accept a slice of that apple pie; not after eating your delicious sandwiches without properly earning them. But there is something I would accept, but only after telling you that here comes what you might call the sting. What I will accept—and the only thing I'll accept—is your permission for me to stand here for a minute and get my fill of that splendid aroma of cinnamon and apple all steaming and fresh from the oven. There is nothing in this whole wide world that so brings back memories of my beloved Maudie." And he leaned towards the smell coming from the open kitchen window, his eyes closed and a sweet smile on his lips as he sort of hung on the air by his nose.

  Unwilling to intrude upon his silent memories, the widow turned her pitying eyes towards me, so I set my milk down again, put my hand to my chest, and smiled sort of thinly.

  Ten minutes later, we were walking up the tracks, Dirty-Shirt Red carefully carrying half a pie wrapped in a newspaper, and the dog following along, criss-crossing close behind our heels. "You trip me and make me smash this pie, Hugo," Dirty-Shirt warned him, "and you'll get my boot so far up your ass you'll be able to taste the leather!"

  As soon as we were out of sight of the widow's farm, Dirty-Shirt shied the dog back home with chucks of ballast, then we continued along, quickly falling into the not-quite-a-full-step gait of the tie walker.

  I could tell he was pretty pleased with himself. Me, I felt ashamed, and I told him so. "It wouldn't of done us any harm to stack that lady's wood for her."

  "Harm's ass. Harm don't come into it. It's a matter of principle. The dumbest mark in the world can earn a sandwich. But to score one without working... that takes a carnie. And the sign of your top-flight carnie was the way I scored those toppings."

  "Toppings?"

  "That's 'Bo for desserts and sweet things, the stuff you top up on. Your ordinary run-of-the-mill carnie would of been content with just the sandwiches, particularly as she'd just about recognized me from the last time I came through and scored off'n her. I hope you noticed how when I conned that old mark out of the apple pie, I had the sass and grit to advertise the sting right out front, telling her I was about to do her down. Now that's as sweet as it gets, kid. That's the juiciest part of any scam."

  "I don't see that it takes all that much grit to tell her you're stinging her when she doesn't even know what a sting is."

  "There's no end of things you don't see, kid."

  "Maybe so, but it seems real low to do down a nice old lady like that."

  He stopped in his tracks and looked down at me with a deep frown. "That wasn't a nice old lady. That was a mark. And marks aren't old or young, or nice or nasty, or male or female. They're just marks, and they've got to be treated like marks. If you can't manage that, then there's no hope of you ever becoming a true carnie."

  "But I admire her kindness to strangers."

  "You what?"

  "I admire it," I repeated, sort of pugnaciously because I'd just learned the real meaning of 'admire' and I wasn't completely sure I had it right. Where I'd come from, people said 'admire' to mean 'like', as in: I'd sure admire to go to the movies tonight, Ma.

  "You admire a dumb mark? And yet you're thinking about becoming a carnie?

  "Yeah, but—"

  "Yeah but's ass! If you're so cut up about scoring off that mark, then you don't have to eat your share of these toppings." He scrambled down from the raised track and sat in the shade of a tree, where he opened his newspaper bundle.

  Between us, we got that pie down pretty quickly, then we continued along the tracks for a couple of hours before we came to a little tank town that I thought was called Marksville until I realized that carnies call all towns Bumpkinburg or Hicksville or Rubetown, or some such. We left the tracks and took the road because anyone seen walking the tracks was assumed to be a hobo, and in some towns you'd do ten days or two weeks in the local hoosegow on a vag charge, and they'd work you as free labor, digging drainage ditches or patching up roads from dawn to dark. When things got real bad, especially in winter, men would sometimes walk right into town along the tracks, and even do a little panhandling on the main street, hoping to get picked up by the local badges so they'd have something to eat and somewhere warm to stay, even if it was only for two weeks. But lots of times, the law would be on to that scam, and they'd just run you out of town after giving you a going over with an ax handle to make sure you didn't come back any too soon.

  Dirty-Shirt Red and I were sauntering down the main street, still heading north, when this big shiny black Packard passed us and pulled up in front of the town bank. The driver jumped out and opened the back door, and this real well-dressed man stepped out and went into the bank, after saying a word or two to people who took off their hats and smiled and bobbed with pleasure at his attention.

  "Man, look at that," I said. "Owning a bankful of money, and having everybody sniffing up to you? I do believe I could get used to that sort of life."

  "Not me," snapped Dirty-Shirt.

  "You're telling me you wouldn't change places with that man and his fancy suit and big car and everybody bobbing and grinning at you like that? Get out of here."

  "Not for anything in the world. Why, I'd sooner look down and discover I was pissing blood than be that man. And you know why?"

  "No, why?"

  "Because for all his high-toned ways, he ain't nothing but a mark."

  "Oh, come on!"

  "I'm not shitting ya, kid. He's a mark. I've played this town, and I've scored on him."

  "You scored on him?"

  "You better believe it. Seven, maybe eight years ago, David Meeker's United International Shows played through this rinky-dink, one-dog town. I was running a merchandise wheel with a painted G that prevented the marks from winning more'n the odd Genuine 100% Celluloid Betty Boop Kewpie doll or one of those Original Beeno-Bingo Lap Blankets made from half a yard of gaudy material that stretched like toffee and would explode into flame if you set a match to it. Well, your high-and-mighty banker comes along with a couple of other yokel dignitaries, sort of slumming with the trash to show he was a regular guy, and he sees that I'm flashing hams. Southern Delight Honey Cured Slo-Smoked Virginia Hams, they were, wrapped up in fancy gold paper. 'I think our cook could do wonders with one of those hams,' he says to one of his ritzy pals. Now of course, there wasn't really any ham inside that wrapping, because we'd been
flashing those same hams for half a dozen years and they'd long ago gone all green and slippery from the heat and been replaced with sawdust wrapped up in ham-shaped packages, but that didn't matter because the mark didn't have a snowball in hell's chance of winning enough points to buy one. (We didn't give money because gambling's illegal almost everywhere down here in Dixieville. We only gave out U-Redeem-M High-Value Premium Purchase Points the mark could use to 'buy' whatever it was your game was flashing. Well, your spiffy banker slaps his dime down on the counter and I give him a spin. And what do you know? He immediately racks up almost enough Premium Purchase Points to win his ham... almost, but not quite. So I explained to him how all he needed was to hit a five and a nine, or any product or multiple thereof, but not exceeding the optimal total, nor totally discounting the cube roots and the more significant fractional variations. Well, he stares at me for a minute, then he draws himself up and says, 'I'm a banker. Numbers are my business, and I'm not one bit bamboozled by your claptrap about cube roots and fractions.' Well, I smiles at him and says, 'You know, sir, as soon as you stepped up to my wheel I could tell that you were a man of mathematical inclinations and arithmetical propensities, so there's no use my trying to pull the wool over your baby blues. Let me be straight with you because in the long run honesty is the best policy. I use that patter—which mathematicians like you and me know perfectly well is nothing but a narcotic tangle of mystifying sounds—in order to tempt the passerby to stay with the game until he wins himself a ham, as the law of averages insists that he must, sooner or later. And why do I do that? Because, sir, I want him to win. I want him to win because I want other people on the midway to see him walking along with one of my Southern Delight Honey Cured Slo-Smoked Virginia Hams under his arm and a self-satisfied smile on his face, and that'll make them envious and bring them running to my place of business to plop down their dimes and win themselves a ham. And that's how I make my living. As you see, sir, there are a total of thirty-six numbers painted on the wheel before you. Now, with a full tip ("tip" being what people in my profession call the crowd standing in front of a game or a wheel) I would have thirty-six dimes—one per each number—riding on every turn of the wheel. And that, if I am not mistaken, would be a total of three dollars and sixty cents. It would be three dollars and sixty cents, wouldn't it, sir? Please feel free to test my contentions and verify my estimates. Now, I can purchase these fine hams wholesale for three dollars and forty cents each. Thus, if I manage to keep my tip full and enthusiastic, then somebody wins a ham with every spin, and I make twenty cents, clear profit. That may not seem like much to a rich man like you, but you take twenty cents and multiply it by a whole bunch, and you'd be surprised how soon it mounts up! Now, I am not going to stand here and ask you to cover every single number on the wheel just to make sure you win your ham. And why? Because you'd refuse to do it. And why would an intelligent man pay three dollars and sixty cents for a three-forty ham? That'd be bad business, and any fool can see that you have the clear eye, the quick mind, and the sharp appetite for a good deal that marks the American businessman (I say "marks" in the sense of "characterizes") and as Cal Coolidge said, "What's good for business is good for America." Here's what I suggest, sir. I suggest you put one dollar—one dollar—on either number nine or number seven, the choice is yours, freely offered and freely taken. Then I want you to come up here and spin the wheel with your own hands because this is a game of chance and we don't want skill to play any unjust role. If your number comes up within twelve spins—twelve spins!—then I'll hand over to you, free and clear and as an unencumbered gift of the establishment one of these Southern Delight Honey Cured Slo-Smoked Virginia Hams. Now, let's you and me walk through the percentages and probabilities of this offer. The chance of your number coming up in one spin would be one in thirty-six. Have I got that right? So with twelve spins, your chance of winning becomes... what would that become?' And the banker says, 'One in three,' and I frowned and struggled with the figures for a second, before I says with surprise, "That's right! One in three! And I'm offering a prize that has a wholesale market value, not of three dollars, but of three dollars and forty cents, which gives you an indisputable advantage without making me seem like the fool who is soon parted from his money. Have I made any oversights or errors in working out the odds, sir?' Well, this banker ran over the figures in his head and guess what? I was right: he did have the mathematical advantage. So he narrowed his eyes and asked how come I was willing to give him the better part of the odds, and I wagged my finger at him and said, 'You see right through me, don't you, sir? You recognize that I stand to win either way. If you fail to hit your number in twelve (twelve!) spins, then I pocket your dollar. But if the international law of averages brings one of these fine hams into your possession, then every citizen of this town will see a leader of the community walking around with one of my hams under his arm, and the next thing you know, my poor wheel will be flooded with customers, and I'll be making a steady twenty cents with each spin. Like I said, I win either way. Oh, by the way, sir? You don't have to baby this wheel. You can spin 'er as hard as you want because she's been carefully and thoroughly G'd.'

  "Well, the mark plunks his dollar down on the nine, and he climbs up and spins the wheel. Then he spins it again. And again. And pretty soon he attracts a tip of local gawkers, wondering what their town banker is doing, sweating in the sun, spinning that big wheel. Well, he kept on spinning, although I could see he was embarrassed by the crowd watching him. Finally his twelve spins were over without him hitting his nine, and he was a little huffy about the way the crowd was laughing and giving him free advice about how to spin a wheel; so, of course, I give him an additional five spins out of the goodness of my heart, telling him that I really wanted him to win his ham and bring me in rafts of customers. So he grunts out another five spins, but that darned nine just refused to come up. I pocketed his buck and shook my head and said, 'Ain't that the ornery way of mathematics for you? Sometimes the law of averages just doesn't work out in the short term. Say, you wouldn't want to risk another dollar, would you, sir?' He grumbles and walks away with his pals laughing and kidding him. So you see, kid. Your Mr Small-Town-Lord-It-Over-the-Little-Guy Banker turned out to be nothing but a mark after all."

  "Yeah, but what if he'd hit the nine and won the ham?"

  "If he'd of hit the nine, I'd of been so surprised I wouldn't of known whether to shit or go blind. Chances are I'd of compromised by closing one eye and farting. There was no way he could of hit the nine. Like I told you, that wheel had a painted G. I even flashed the G to your banker friend when I told him he could spin 'er as hard as he wanted because it was well and truly G'd."

  "What's a painted G?"

  "A G-wheel is a fixed wheel. Sometimes with elaborate brakes that let the practiced carnie stop on an empty number, sometimes with a slide that lets him skip a number with a lot of money on it. But the best G is the one painted right on the wheel, where the numbers are written on little triangles, half with their broad ends towards the nails around the edge, and half with their points. On that wheel, all the odd numbers had their points coming to a nail, so, of course, the flapper couldn't possibly stop on an odd number. A painted G is always better than any mechanical G, even a high-class belly-buff, because it's right out there in front of the mark's face, but he can't see it because he's concentrating so hard on complicated scams and devices. Of course, a painted G requires a word-weaver to fog their minds, which is why yours truly is one of the finest wheelman in this republic, from sea to shining sea."

  I turned around and looked back down the street to the big shiny Packard parked outside the bank, and I shook my head. "Yeah, but all the same I admire the way—"

  "Admire's ass, kid. He's nothing but a mark. Not worth thinking about."

  When we reached the edge of town where the houses began to thin out, we climbed back up onto the tracks and walked on northward. The sun was settling into the horizon, growing big and dusty red where it
had got snagged in a clump of trees that threw their long shadows across the darkening flatlands. I heard singing off to our left, where a little white clapboard church was standing next to its burying ground, its windows already lit for evening worship. On the front steps was this preacher dressed in black, and some parishioners were standing around, looking up at him with respect and admiration.

  I stopped and looked down on the scene, and I felt a sort of tug in my chest. "Man, wouldn't I give a lot to be in that man's shoes," I said. "I can just see myself standing there and being admired and respected by everybody, and nothing to do but get up in the pulpit and lay into folks, telling them how low-down and vile and sinful they are, and how they'll sure as hell roast in eternal fire, if they don't shape up pretty goddamned soon."

  Dirty-shirt nodded. "Yeah, I gotta admit that preaching's a pretty soft scam. Any fair-to-middlin' carnie could make a bindle out of, if he was willing to sacrifice his freedom and settle down in some Boobville Corners. And quite a few of them have done just that. But believe me, kid, you wouldn't want to be that particular shame merchant."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause he's the biggest goddam fool of a mark I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot."

  "You know him?"

  "I recognize him." Dirty-Shirt started to walk on, and I followed. "In my line of business you learn to recognize people before they recognize you and go after the law. Or their shotguns. Yeah, I recognize him from some twenty-five years ago when I played through here with Happy Elmer Holliday's Great Eastern Amalgamated Shows. He was lots younger then—but then, who wasn't? Except for you, of course. You were still part of some angel's nightmare."

  "What makes him the biggest mark you ever saw?"

  Dirty-Shirt shook his head. "That man...! That man threw away what most men would have given their front seat in hell to have. He passed up Loving Grace Appleby. Can you believe it?"

  I could believe it because I didn't have the slightest idea who Loving Grace Appleby was, and I said so.