The Three-Legged Hootch Dancer: Tales of the Galactic Midway, Vol. 2

by Mike Resnick

  “Got a minute?” said a familiar voice, and Flint turned to face Jason Diggs, who, despite the fact that showtime was still hours off, was decked out in his usual natty garb: derby hat, white shirt, black bowtie, red vest, red garters on his sleeves, brightly checked slacks, and black patent-leather shoes.

  “Have a seat,” said Flint, indicating an empty chair next to him.

  The Rigger sat down and lit a small, thin cigar. “Hot,” he commented.

  “So loosen your tie."

  Diggs shook his head. “Start letting yourself go on these jerkwater worlds, and pretty soon you're four hundred pounds and shacking up with a lady lizard."

  Flint shrugged. “Suit yourself. How are the girls working out?"

  “Well, considering that you never hired them for their brainpower, I'd say they're doing okay. I've got Barbara working the shell game, and Priscilla's on the Fascination booth."

  “And Gloria?"

  “She still won't report to work. I saw her practicing her belly dancing this morning.” He shook his head. “For a sexy broad, she's the most awkward goddamned dancer I ever saw."

  “I know."

  “How come she's such a good stripper?"

  “Vulnerability,” replied Flint. “In stripping, it translates as just enough shyness or awkwardness to make the audience think she hasn't done her routine ten thousand times before."

  “You going to let her belly dance?"

  “What am I supposed to do: walk up and tell her she's got two left feet?"

  “They'll laugh at her, Thaddeus."

  “No they won't. They've never seen a good belly dancer. They'll walk out on her, just like they do when she strips."

  “How long are you going to let this go on?"

  “Until she gets tired of it."

  “What makes you think she will?” asked the Rigger.

  “Sooner or later she's got to. Even Stogie gave up after a while."

  Stogie was Max Bloom, the ancient baggy-pants comic.

  “There's a difference,” Diggs pointed out. “Stogie never thought what he was doing was an art form. He told three dirty jokes to that race that reproduces by budding—what were they called? The Kligorites—and knew he'd had it. My biggest problem now is that he wants to work the Bozo cage."

  Flint grimaced. “That's just what we need: a seventy-one-year-old clown getting dunked in cold water fifty times a night with no doctor around. He wouldn't live out the week."

  “You know it and I know it, and probably he knows it too, but he says he's too old to learn a new routine."

  “And getting dunked is an old routine?"

  “No,” said Diggs. “But insulting the customers is. And that's what the Bozo is supposed to do: get ‘em so mad they pay for the balls and try to knock him off his perch."

  “Out of the question,” said Flint.

  “That's what I keep telling him, but he's pretty adamant."

  “What's the platform—about three feet above the water?” asked Flint.

  “Hell, the fall would probably kill him. Besides, I really wonder if we shouldn't leave the Bozo cage in mothballs. Maybe one of these nights our Bozo will holler out the wrong insult and we'll have a war on our hands."

  “Am I wrong,” remarked the Rigger, “or are you a little more irritable than usual?"

  “The Corporation is sending someone to check out the operation."

  “Ahhh!” said Diggs. “Well, we'll just have to flim-flam him."

  “Or some body."

  “You want us to start gaffing?” asked Diggs. “I thought we were supposed to be playing it straight."

  “I wanted to, I really did,” replied Flint. “But I've got to show this guy that we've turned the corner and started making a profit or there's no telling what kind of a hassle he'll give us."

  “What'll your partner say?"

  “He'll say: no crooked games—but there's more than one way to skin a cat."

  “You got something particular in mind?"

  “Yeah. Teach Barbara how to work a Skillo game, and you set up a Psychic booth."

  The Rigger guffawed. “A Psychic booth! Lord, I haven't worked one of those for twenty years. Everyone got wise to them after a while."

  “We're not going to be here that long,” replied Flint. “We'll run it as long as it keeps the marks happy, and then we'll switch to an Auction."

  “My oh my!” grinned the Rigger. “You really do want make a buck, don't you?"

  “It might be a pleasant change,” commented Flint dryly. “And make sure Tojo and Stogie are watching you tonight so they can learn how it works."

  “There's nothing to it,” chuckled Diggs. “The trick is just not to be too smart."

  “Then we all ought to be experts. Have you got enough slum?"

  “Probably not."

  “Then get some money from Mr. Ahasuerus and take the landcar into town and pick up what you need."

  “Right,” said the Rigger. “I'll be back in two hours."

  “Remember to take a translator!” Flint called after him.

  He suddenly realized that he hadn't eaten all day—the five beers didn't really count—so he went to the ship's mess hall for a sandwich. Gloria was sitting there, drinking some concoction of fruit juices and reading a paperback romance novel she'd brought along from Earth.

  “How's it going?” Flint asked pleasantly, taking a seat at her table and unwrapping his sandwich.

  “The Rigger thinks I'm not very good,” she replied, up from her book.

  “Are you?"

  “I will be,” she said stubbornly.

  Flint shrugged. “Then don't listen to him."

  “He didn't say anything. But I could tell from the expression on his face."

  “Have you given any thought to what you're going to use for music?” he inquired. “All we have on tape are snare drums and calliopes."

  “I'll come up with something. Finger cymbals, maybe."

  “I didn't know you had any."

  “I don't—but I can have one of Ahasuerus’ robots make some. After all, they do nothing except set the show up and break it down. They've got lots of time."

  “They're programmed to assemble and disassemble tents and booths. I don't know if they can make finger cymbals."

  “Then I'll use something else!” she snapped. “Don't you start in on me too, Thaddeus! I've had enough of that for one week."

  “Oh? From who?"

  “Barbara and Priscilla."

  “What did they say?"

  “They keep trying to convince me that stripping is degrading.” She snorted contemptuously. “I notice they didn't think so as long as they could make money at it. Besides, I'd like to know what's so goddamned uplifting about shilling for the Rigger!"

  “Calm down,” said Flint. “You don't have to work the games unless you want to."

  “I know,” she said more gently. “It's just so frustrating! In my whole life I've only been able to do one thing well, and now no one wants me to do it!"

  “It's not a matter of what we want. It's a matter of what the marks will pay for."

  “That's why I'm working on my belly dancing."

  “And if they don't pay for that either?” he asked mildly.

  “Then I'll think of something else. One way or another I'm going to find a way to make audiences happy."

  “I'll settle for just making them poorer,” he said wryly.

  “You don't think I can do it!” she said hotly, rising from the table. “Well, you'll see!"

  She walked out the airlock, and Flint turned to watch her. There was a certain sexy swing to her buttocks, no question about it, and she swayed and jiggled just like the girls on the TV shows back on Earth, but the very things that made her look so delectable—her posture, the way she set her feet down so heavily—would work against her as a dancer. Stripping mimicked the sweaty gyrations of the sex act, and a degree of awkwardness made both stripping and sex all the more enticing. But dancing, and especial
ly belly dancing, was an athletic discipline: the belly fluttered instead of bumping, the hips shimmied instead of grinding, the floorwork put pressure on muscles she hadn't used in years.

  Still, if it made her happy to try, why not? At least when she finally went to work in the booths she wouldn't blame him for not giving her every chance to remain a performer. And besides, it wasn't as if the game booths were being overrun with customers these days.

  He was still staring at the airlock when Mr. Ahasuerus entered the ship and walked over to him.

  “I have just given Diggs three hundred credits to go in town and buy some slum,” announced the blue man.

  “Good. How much is a credit worth?"

  “On Procyon III, it will buy the equivalent of eighty cents American."

  “That'll be enough,” said Flint. “And if it isn't, we can always get more."

  “Then, since this meets with your approval, perhaps you can tell me, just for the record, what slum is? I had the obviously mistaken impression that it referred to decrepit tenement buildings."

  Flint chuckled. “It's carny slang. The Rigger is off hunting up a few gross of very cheap gifts at a wholesale house in town."

  “Which wholesale house?"

  “How the hell do I know? I've only been on the goddamn planet for five or six hours."

  “I wish you would come to me with your needs,” said Mr. Ahasuerus patiently. “The Corporation owns a number of businesses on Procyon III. Even if they couldn't supply us with what we need, we could surely use their discounts."

  “Believe me, Mr. Ahasuerus,” replied Flint, “if I had sent anyone but Diggs I would have cleared it with you first."

  “What makes him different?"

  “I saw a couple of bulges in his vest pocket,” said Flint with a smile. “I would imagine that right about now he is giving some poor Procyonian warehouse owner a quick course in how to shoot craps, which will be followed by an even quicker course in the statistical redistribution of Procyonian wealth."

  “With our luck, it will be a Corporation warehouse,” commented the blue man.

  “I never even thought of that,” admitted Flint.

  “Just out of curiosity, why do we have to purchase more gifts?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus. “I should have thought that was the one commodity with which we were adequately supplied, especially in light of the business we've been doing."

  “Oh, we've got a lot of gifts lying around the ship, that's for sure,” said Flint. “But some of them are a little too good. Slum are really cheap gifts, the kind of things we pick up for two or three cents apiece in quantity."

  “And we need them?"

  “Don't let it upset you,” replied Flint. “If things go right, we won't have any left by tomorrow morning."

  “You intend to give them all away tonight?"

  “Not exactly."

  “Then what?"

  “Stop by the Rigger's booth tonight and see for yourself."

  “I will. And if you and Mr. Diggs are conspiring to a crooked game..."

  “Partner, you cut me to the quick!” grinned Flint.

  Mr. Ahasuerus stared at him for a moment, then walked to the private elevator that would take him to his office on the top level of the ship.

  Flint finished his sandwich, had another, washed it down with his sixth beer of the day, and spent the next couple of hours strolling around the Midway, checking out the booths, making sure Monk's animals were adapting to the planet, trying unsuccessfully to get the Dancer to practice, and getting another brief but spellbinding demonstration that further practice was unnecessary. He saw Priscilla diligently trying to raise Gloria's consciousness and gave the pair of them a wide berth, then went back to his room aboard ship for a nap.

  When he awoke the sun was just setting, and Diggs had returned from town bearing two dozen cartons of odd little artifacts: cheap jewelry, rag figures that seemed to be the Procyonian equivalent of dolls, and a number of glittery, strangely-shaped metallic objects for which he could discern no purpose.

  A fair-sized opening-night crowd began arriving at sunset, and Flint estimated that better than three thousand Procyonian would pass through the Midway that night. It wasn't much compared to some of the business he'd done on Earth, but then, with no rides or girl show or freak show, this wasn't much of a carnival compared to the one he'd had on Earth either, and he was in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth—not even a very small gift horse.

  Mr. Ahasuerus joined him a few minutes after dark, and they walked over to the Psychic booth. Diggs was sitting on a stool, telling jokes that none of the Procyonians understood while waiting for the crowd to build a little more, and doing enough card tricks to guarantee that no human who saw him would ever get into a poker or blackjack game with him. As his patter and routine continued he began getting just a little too pompous, a little too ostentatious about his skill with cards, and the crowd started getting hostile.

  “You'd better tell him to modify his pitch,” said Mr. Ahasuerus softly.

  “He's got a reason,” answered Flint.

  “You mean he wants them mad at him?"

  Flint nodded. “Watch,” he whispered.

  Diggs kept on speaking for another five minutes, then put his cards away and hooked up a microphone to his translator.

  “All right,” he announced. “It's show time. I'm all through showing you how dumb you are.” He checked his watch. “It's eight o'clock now"—the time, as well as the language, was translated into Procyonian terms—"and I'm so goddamned sure of myself I promise that I'm not going to get out of this booth until midnight.” He gestured to the slum. “You see these gifts? Well, ordinarily we limit them one to a customer, but your brains are so goddamned easy for me to read that I'm going to give each of you a present for every single question I can't answer.” He suddenly pointed to a male at the back of the crowd. “I read that thought, sir, and all I can say is: the same to you!"

  He looked around until he spotted Tojo. “Tojo, my good man, go out among these clods and start collecting money. One credit per question; no more, no less.” He paused to clear his throat. “This is how it works, bumpkins.

  You ask any question you like: how far it is to Alpha Sigma, whose house you robbed last night, anything at all. If I answer it correctly, as I'm sure to do, you pay me double—two credits. If I'm wrong, which happens about once every five years, and then only when I've been drinking, you can have any one of these beautiful presents."

  He looked out at the crowd. “Are we ready to begin?"

  “Do these guys know we're not telepaths?” whispered Flint.

  “Yes,” replied the blue man.

  Flint smiled. “Duck soup,” he commented.

  A male in the front of the crowd gave Tojo a credit.

  “What my name?” he asked.

  Diggs looked long and hard at him. “George Washington Carver,” he announced at last.

  The male gave the Procyonian equivalent of a raspberry, and showed an identification tag to Diggs. The Rigger couldn't read a word of it, but he glared at it as if he couldn't believe it, then shrugged and gestured to the gifts.

  The Procyonian took one, then asked Diggs to name his address.

  “One question to a customer!” roared the Rigger.

  The crowd started screaming that he had made no such precondition, so Diggs sighed and went to work. Within four minutes he had guessed that the Procyonian lived at 121 Broadway in Manhattan, worked for the New York Yankees, had eaten scrambled eggs for breakfast, and had come to the carnival in a 1978 Ford Mustang. All, of course, were wrong.

  “Enough's enough!” bellowed Diggs, getting red in the face. “Is it my fault this creature is too goddamned stupid to have a mind to read? Someone else ask me something. Fair is fair!"

  A female offered two credits to Tojo, and asked Diggs to name her two offspring.

  “Groucho and Harpo,” was the answer.

  Within another fifteen minutes he had guessed incorrectly
on forty more questions, and was fit to be tied.

  “That's all!” he cried. “I don't know what's wrong, but the show's over! This has never happened to me before."

  A couple of huge males—Flint imagined they were the equivalent of Procyonian truckdrivers—shouldered their way to the front and reminded him that he had promised not close the booth until midnight.

  “But I'm going broke!” he wailed.

  Tough, was their answer.

  “Is he going to make a right answer all night?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “Probably not,” said Flint. “On Earth he'd probably have the bad luck to come up with a right one every twenty questions or so, but here he ought to be safe."

  “Safe?” repeated the blue man. “But he's losing a present on every guess!"

  “How much did each present cost us?"

  “About two cents."

  “And how much is he getting for each wrong answer?” grinned Flint.

  Mr. Ahasuerus’ eyes widened. “I see."

  “You can't say it's a crooked game. We're giving them presents whether they want them or not, and poor Diggs is up there getting humiliated in front of everyone after he started the evening by insulting them."

  “There's a little more to this than meets the eye, Mr. Flint,” said Mr. Ahasuerus, exposing his teeth in what passed for a smile.

  “You think that's something?” laughed Flint. “Come on over and let me show you how a Skillo game works."

  The blue man accompanied him to where Barbara was running the Skillo booth, which had five identical games in it. Mr. Ahasuerus watched for a few minutes as the marks tried to roll marbles into a numbered hole, then turned to Flint.

  “It looks easy."

  “It is."

  “Then why—"

  “It's easy to win. It's impossible to beat."

  “I'm not sure I understand you."

  “It costs five credits to play,” explained Flint. “Depending on the numerical combinations, you can win one, three, ten, or a thousand credits.

  It's about fifty-fifty that you'll win one, and you've got a one-in-five chance of winning three. You'd have to play an average of fifty games before you'd win ten."