Madball

by Fredric Brown

  He got the carton from behind the mitt camp. He took it around behind the unborn show top. It was dark inside but he made sure by calling out Barney's name as he went under the canvas. He played his flashlight around thoroughly to make sure no drunken rideboy had crawled in here to sleep. Everything was okay. The top was empty except for things that belonged there. Including the jar with the forty-two thousand dollar calf fetus.

  He reached under the canvas at the back and brought in the carton, The flashlight, lying on the ground, gave him enough light to put the jar into the carton and rope it shut. The jar was heavier than he'd guessed it would be; he was glad he'd be able to carry it by the rope.

  Outside again, he stood for long seconds in the darkness, making sure that no one was near, no one was coming. Then he started around behind the tops again. He had a song and dance ready for anyone he might meet who might ask him what the hell he was carrying that looked so heavy, but he didn't meet anyone. He was almost sorry because the song and dance had been a good one and it was a shame to waste it.

  In the mitt camp he unroped the carton and lifted the jar out of it, in darkness. No use risking even dim light until he needed it for the finer work of cutting the rubber. He tried the lid. It was a big lid, almost as big in diameter as the jar, and it was on tightly. He had to sit down with his legs wrapped around the jar and use both hands on the lid, one on each side. It turned, finally.

  No smell of formaldehyde, the one thing he'd been afraid of.

  It was in the bag. It was a lead pipe cinch. It was every other cliché he could think of. God still loved him and he could do no wrong.

  And over two hours he had. Much more time than he needed, plenty of time to sigh happily and relax long enough to have a leisurely drink to fortify himself. Very carefully he hadn't taken a drink all day today, and now he deserved one, just one but a big one. It was going to be painstaking work cementing the rubber back again so the slit wouldn't show and no water would leak in. One big drink would make his hands steadier.

  Still in darkness he found the bottle and a tumbler. This drink wasn't going to be straight from the bottle; he wanted to sip it, to savor and enjoy every drop of it. He used the flashlight briefly to see to the pouring. The glass was a six-ounce tumbler and he filled it half full of Old Bushmills. Bought for the purpose while he'd been in town that morning.

  He raised the glass to his lips, sipped, and dreamed.

  The money, the beautiful moolah, only inches and minutes away. Savor this moment, he told himself; realization will never equal it. This fleeting instant, this now, this anticipation - prolong it and enjoy it. Money will buy wonderful things but never a moment such as this one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  AFTER A WHILE, after a long while, Sammy decided that whoever had knocked on the trailer door had gone away. He hadn't heard any footsteps, but then he hadn't heard any footsteps coming either. Whoever had been out there must have been wearing slippers or rubber soled shoes that made no sound on the grass. And he must have gone by now; he wouldn't still be standing there waiting this long after knocking. Sammy's muscles ached from the strain of standing so still. His arm ached from holding the revolver pointed at the door.

  But he had to make sure that the knocker-on-the-door had really gone away before he went ahead with his searching. He kept the gun in his hand but put his hand around behind him out of sight and then went to the door. He moved the chair away and opened it. Nobody was in sight; he put his head out and looked all around to make sure.

  He closed the door and put the chair against it again to hold it shut. He put the gun back in his pocket and returned to the suitcase. He threw out more clothes. The books didn't seem to be there. There were other things besides clothes, jars and bottles and three little boxes which he opened but whose contents didn't mean anything to him except that they didn't look valuable. And then he threw out the last of the clothes and at the bottom at one end of the suitcase was a shoe box.

  He picked it up out of the suitcase - and took the lid off.

  The shoe box was almost full of money, paper money, in neat stacks. Some of it in packages with paper bands around them, some of it loose.

  Sammy stared at the money unbelievingly. He hadn't thought there was that much money in the whole world.

  It was an awful lot of money. It must be enough money to buy anything. It must be a million dollars, or maybe a million million dollars. And Jesse had once told him that people who had a million dollars lived in big houses and had people to wait on them and everything they wanted. People who had a million dollars were rich.

  Mr. Magus had been right! Sammy was rich already. Rich with paper money, folding money.

  Bright pictures came to Sammy. All the cotton candy he could eat. Even a cotton candy machine of his own, like Mr. Magus had suggested, only he wouldn't want to hire someone to run it for him; why, pouring the pink sugar into it and watching the cotton candy form from it would be almost as much fun as eating it.

  Now he could buy anything he wanted. He wouldn't want or need the bindle he'd started to make. He wouldn't have to eat those crackers; he could buy hamburger steaks any time he got hungry. Not tonight, maybe it would be too late to find a place open tonight, but his stomach was full at the moment from all the cookies he'd eaten.

  Yes, he could forget the bindle. He had all he needed, the box of money and a gun to scare off anybody who tried to take it away from him. He wouldn't give this box of money even to Jesse, even if Jesse begged him to and wanted to take him back. This money was security, too, bigger and better security than he'd had with Jesse.

  And in particular he'd never give it back to Mr. Evans. It served Mr. Evans right to have it taken away from him. Only he'd better leave quickly now before Mr. Evans came back because if he tried to take the money away from Sammy, Sammy would have to shoot him. And he didn't really want to shoot anybody, not even Mr. Evans, if he didn't have to. Because if he shot anybody the cops would come after him and they might catch him and put him in jail; then he couldn't spend the money.

  He tiptoed to the door and looked around; there was nobody in sight so he stepped outside. He remembered then that he still hadn't found the book, the book with the pictures of naked men and women.

  Almost he turned back, but then came the dizzying thought that with all that folding money he didn't need the book. He didn't have to look at pictures. Both Mr. King and Mr. Magus had told him that Miss Trixie would do those things with him if he gave her paper money.

  Maybe even, now that he had a million million dollars, Miss Trixie would run away with him. And they could ride in taxicabs and on trains instead of hitting the road. They could stay in hotels and fancy places, and he'd buy lots of pretty things for Miss Trixie.

  He had to find her now, right away.

  He started toward the midway. He was so excited now that he didn't care if he ran into Jesse, or even if he ran into Mr. Evans and Mr. Evans recognized the box under his arm. If Mr. Evans asked for it back Sammy would just laugh at him and point the gun at him and Mr. Evans would run away.

  Money and the gun gave Sammy a sense of power he'd never felt before. Something new, very heady. He felt as strong and as smart as anybody he might run into - and he had the gun besides. Its weight in his pocket felt good.

  Gripping the shoe box tightly under his arm, he hurried toward the model show top to look for Miss Trixie. She probably wouldn't be there, but wherever she was he'd find her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  TRIXIE CONNOR PUT the final touch on her lipstick, standing close to the full length mirror in the dressing room of the model show. She looked all right, she decided. Her face was a bit sharp, but it always had been; she couldn't do anything about that. She stepped back for a full length view of herself and pirouetted. The full length view was good. She was small but her body was perfect. She'd been called a "pocket Venus" more than once and she loved the phrase. Almost as well as she loved the body it described. Loved it and loved t
o show it. Posing was pure pleasure for Trixie. Her only beef with her job was the fact that in most towns the Law insisted upon at least nominal covering, a gauzy bra and a G-string. In places where the Law was tough, really Sunday School, and the girls had to wear opaque bras and wider G-strings, Trixie wasn't happy. But then again there were the few places where they could pose really naked - of course with a hand and a forearm held like September Morn held them (but she could always manage to drop her arm a little, as though accidentally, just as they started to draw the curtain) - and when the carney played in such places she was cheerful and happy. Of course she'd posed for artists too, and that was good in a way because she could pose completely naked and not have to pretend to be coy about it, but it wasn't good really because there was only one man looking at her and most of the time looking at her as something to paint and not something to want. Posing for art classes was a little better but not much. Carney posing was best because the marks all looked at her the way she wanted to be looked at, the way that gave her kicks.

  The carney paid well, too, and that was important because next to herself Trixie loved money. Some day she was going to have a lot of money, big money, money enough to do anything she pleased - and she had some ideas about what that would be although they weren't as definite as the plan itself, the plan for getting the money.

  The plan hadn't worked yet, but it would work soon, maybe this coming winter. It was so simple that it had to work sooner or later. All through the carnival season, for the three seasons now since she'd thought of the plan, Trixie had saved her money. Her outside money, that is. Since her pay for modeling was enough for her to live well and dress well, she saved every dollar she could make on the side, after hours, selling what all men wanted, carneys and marks alike. It wasn't something that she wanted to do but she didn't mind doing it; in fact, once in a while she mildly enjoyed it. For three seasons now she'd saved every dollar she'd made that way and it had always amounted enough to let her carry out the plan.

  The plan meant spending the winter - or as much of it as her stake would allow - at a swanky Florida winter resort, a place to which only people who were filthy rich went. She picked a different place each year, but always a very expensive resort hotel with a patio swimming pool. The more it cost the better, even though her stake would last a shorter period. She spent her afternoons sunning herself and acquiring a golden tan beside the pool. (And mornings lying nude under a sun lamp in her room so the tan would be all over and wouldn't mar her body for posing.) Sooner or later, spending her winters like that, she'd catch herself a rich man who'd want her so badly that he'd marry her. She'd come close already, a dozen times. And God knows there'd been no lack of propositions short of marriage; plenty of them had wanted her for a mistress and she could have had her choice of penthouse apartments. But she wanted more than that - or, rather, less than that. She wanted to marry a rich man so she wouldn't have to live with him, not longer than a month or so, anyway; then she could get a divorce and a financial settlement and be independent. Like Tommy Manville's ex's. Someone like Tommy Manville she wanted. But nothing less than a marriage certificate to go with him; how could you divorce a man and hook him unless he married you first? And it was strictly her business if she was a chippy all summer so she could afford to be strictly virtuous all winter, or whatever part of all winter she could afford to spend among the rich. The two things evened out, didn't they? One paid for and complemented the other and she enjoyed both lives. Someday the combination would pay off, someday she'd hit the jackpot.

  She looked at her watch. Ten minutes after one, ten minutes late for her date. But the mark would wait that long; he'd probably wait half an hour or an hour before he decided she wasn't coming. If he didn't want her badly enough to do that, he wouldn't be good for the kind of dough she expected to take him for anyway so he wouldn't be much of a loss. It was good for a man to be kept waiting and wondering at least for a little while.

  She put the lipstick back in her purse and, seeing the note there, took it out and read it again. It had been in an envelope that had also held a ten-dollar bill. The mark had given the envelope to the ticket taker, and had probably handed him a buck to deliver it to her. She got notes from marks a dozen or more times a week - all three of the girls did. Nine out of ten of them she just tore up but once in a while one looked as though the mark would put cash on the line and had enough of it to interest her, so she followed through. This one had definitely interested her because of that ten-dollar bill.

  The note - she read it again now - read: "Dear Trixie Connor - (he knew her name, of course because the Poses and the poser were announced each time just before the curtain was pulled. 'Miss Trixie Connor as Queen of the Roses'; that was the pose in which she wore four roses - one was in her hair, if you're curious.) This is my calling card. There are a few more like it if you would like to meet me tonight after the show. I don't know how late it runs but one o'clock ought to be safe. At one o'clock I'll be parked on Beech Street just around the corner from the carnival lot, in a light blue Buick coupe. Please come, honey. You won't be sorry."

  He'd be a live one all right if he'd been willing to gamble a sawbuck just to get her attention and without knowing whether she ever put out for money or not. A few times she'd had five-dollar bills in notes the same way, and had done all right with the guys who'd sent them, but this was the first time anyone had enclosed a ten. She could count on at least another fifty out of him and maybe a hundred, especially if he wanted her to stay with him all night. A hundred bucks would be a nice addition to her winter fund. It was more than she could make in a week of sleeping around with carneys on the lot. Carneys aren't suckers; five bucks was par and twenty was just about the top she could ever get from one and that only for an all night stand.

  She shoved the note back into her purse and took a final look in the big mirror before she turned off the light and left, stepping carefully under the canvas so it wouldn't muss her hair. She'd better hurry now; it was almost one-fifteen and he might decide fifteen minutes was long enough and that his ten bucks had been a bad investment.

  She hurried between the tops, past the bally platform and out onto the midway, out into the light.

  A voice called her name and she stopped and turned. It was only Sammy, poor halfwitted Sammy, coming toward her, almost running. He had a shoe box under his left arm and his face looked - different.

  "Miss Trixie! I was just coming for you. I want-"

  She spoke rapidly. "Sammy, I can't talk to you now. I'm late for a date." She turned and started walking again.

  But Sammy was walking alongside her, walking as rapidly as she was. He opened the shoe box even as she turned to him to tell him to go away and not to follow her; he reached in and held out in front of her a handful of-

  They were right under a light bulb. She could see it plainly and she couldn't be wrong. It was a handful of money - a handful of twenty and fifty-dollar bills!

  Trixie Connor stopped as though she had walked into a stone wall.

  Almost by reflex action her hand darted out and grabbed that handful of bills - Sammy's fingers released them without struggle. The quickest glance showed her it was real money, not stage money or queer; the bills were all well worn and they looked right and felt right.

  She forgot all about the light blue Buick coupe.

  She quickly unsnapped her purse and stuffed the money into it as she whirled to face Sammy.

  "Sammy, where did you get that money?"

  He grinned at her. "I found it, Miss Trixie."

  "Let me see that box!" She clutched at it but Sammy held onto it firmly; he was stronger than she.

  He said quietly, "I'll let you see, Miss Trixie." As she let go he took off the lid and let her look. The light bulb overhead threw light into the box. Trixie gasped. Hundreds and hundreds of bills were stacked in there. Big denomination bills, most of them. At a quick glance it looked like maybe a hundred thousand dollars, maybe half a million.

&nb
sp; Her mind clicked into overdrive. She did what she should have done seconds ago; she looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching them. No one was, and that meant for sure that nobody else knew Sammy had that money. They'd be sticking close to Sammy and planning to get it away from him. As she was right now.

  It didn't matter where the money came from. Nothing mattered but how to get it for herself.

  She put her hand on his arm and pulled him out from under that glaring and dangerous light, back into the shadows between the tops. Sammy pulled willingly.

  Nothing like trying the simplest thing first. She put her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. "Sammy, do you want to go to bed with me?"

  "Gee, sure, Miss Trixie. That's what I give you the money for. It's enough, ain't it, what I give you?"

  She could have said no and got another handful, but it was more important not to make him suspicious or even to let him wonder if she was greedy. She said, "Sure, Sammy, that was enough. For that much you can spend all night with me. And let's go to a hotel downtown."

  "Whatever you say, Miss Trixie."

  "Now listen to me, Sammy. You keep that box closed, don't let anybody else see inside it. Understand, Sammy? And let me do the talking, all the talking - to the taxi driver, to the hotel clerk, to anybody we have to talk to. And let me pay for things so you won't have to open the box. We can straighten that out later between us. Do you understand, Sammy?"

  "Sure, Miss Trixie. Gee, I never stayed at a hotel before, so you know what to do and I don't. You mean we're going to take a taxi? I never took no taxi before either."

  "That's why you should let me handle everything, honey. Yes, we'll take a taxi if one goes by and we can hail it. If one doesn't we'll walk; it's only about twenty blocks to town. We can walk twenty blocks, can't we, honey?"

  "Gee, sure, Miss Trixie."

  "But now listen and let me explain some things before we start so you won't make any mistakes. We want to do this so we won't take any chances of a hotel detective walking in on us, anything like that to spoil things. I've got a couple of suitcases and we'll take them; we'll go back and get them first thing. And at the hotel we'll register - I mean I'll register for both of us, as brother and sister, and we'll ask for separate rooms."